Date: Tue, 13 May 2003 20:08:22 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Phantom of Aurora: Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance
to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions,
customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to
remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back
then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the
bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not
continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right
and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also
contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of thumping your bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible
Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, please do not send me e-mails
espousing whatever cause your touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual
nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If
your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping and cant, please move on. If you
are not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic
nature, or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please
move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex
is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts
without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames).

The Phantom of AURORA: Chapter One

The Phantom slowly opened the door and entered the barracks. He was
dressed, from his soft-soled shoes to his ski- masked covered head and
face, in black. Black leather gloves covered his hands. The Phantom took no
chances. Even his briefs were black. Ranged before him were the tiers of
double bunks that held the bodies of some of the boys he would visit
tonight. He remained still, listening intently for a noise, a sound that
was out of the ordinary. He heard nothing but the heavy, rhythmic breathing
of 40 boy cadets deep in sleep.

The Phantom removed his gloves, thrust them into the deep side pocket of
his jeans, and adjusted his slowly rising dick, which was hardening with
anticipation. He glided silently forward. His keen eyesight, aided by the
moonlight streaming through the open windows and the dim glow of the red
emergency lights spaced down the sides of the room, allowed him to navigate
the length of the mess deck.

>From time to time he used his hand torch, which was fitted with a red
plastic lens, to probe the deep shadows cast over the occupants of the
lower bunks. He forced himself to ignore the bodies lying in the upper
bunks, many of which he knew held what he considered wonderful treasure. He
never knew how the boy he was visiting would react and rather than risk
waking the cadet sleeping in the lower bunk as the boy in the upper
thrashed and moaned, the Phantom left them strictly alone.

The Phantom knew that success depended on making as little noise as
possible and on disturbing no one. He also knew from his previous visits
last year that many of the cadets slept on their sides or stomachs, which
made tasting the delights hidden under the soft fabric of their underpants
difficult.

A quick pass of his flashlight showed that tonight was no
exception. Another pass and his face broke into a wide smile. He saw that
three of the boys were sleeping on their backs, an ideal position for what
he planned to do this night.  He retraced his steps and knelt beside a bunk
about halfway down the room. He waited patiently and listened
closely. There was no need to rush. He flashed his hand torch for a few
brief seconds and saw all he needed to see. The boy was young, about 14 the
Phantom guessed. From mid-chest to toes the cadet was covered with the blue
and white checked counterpane that was issued to every cadet. He was slim,
but with a well-developed body. His black, sleep-tousled hair hung in
curling strands across his broad forehead. The boy's mouth was slightly
ajar, his breathing slow and steady.

The Phantom fixed his gaze on the small bulge in the counterpane just a
little more than halfway down the boy's body. Slowly The Phantom moved his
hand and gently felt the dick and balls hidden under the two layers of
cloth. He knew the cadet would be wearing underpants. They were all
forbidden to sleep nude. He stared at the cadet's face, waiting for a
reaction. Nothing.

Very carefully and gently The Phantom massaged the boy's genitals. From the
feel of them the boy's balls were small, and tight against his crotch. The
soft flesh of the cadet's cock lay directly over his over his balls,
pointing downward. As he massaged the soft flesh The Phantom felt the young
cock begin to stiffen and a tent began to form in the counterpane. A small
tent, to be sure, and held in check by the fabric of the cadet's
underpants. The boy's right leg stirred and trembled slightly as the
pleasure building in his balls travelled upward and penetrated his
sleep-drugged brain.

The Phantom stared again at the boy's face, noticing a slight tightening of
his lips. Beneath his hand The Phantom could feel the cadet's rock hard
penis, perhaps four inches of steely boy flesh. The Phantom stroked and
kneaded the thin rod of cock beneath his fingers. The boy squirmed and
moved his hand towards his crotch. The Phantom quickly withdrew and watched
as the boy massaged himself, then moved his hardon so that it was now
pointing up his body. He rubbed himself slowly, pushing the counterpane
down and revealing his white briefs. After a few strokes the boy's hand
stopped, then slid slowly down his thigh to his side. He sighed
contentedly, and his breathing resumed the rhythm of sleep. The Phantom
flashed his light again and saw that the young cadet's penis had shrunk
somewhat so he reached over and resumed his ministrations to the boy's
cock. A small wet spot appeared just below the elastic band of the boy's
briefs as he squirmed, moving slightly. His breathing did not change.

The Phantom reached up and slowly pulled the cadet's underpants
down. Released from the thin restraining fabric of his briefs the boy's
penis sprang upward, bounced twice, and settled against his stomach. The
Phantom anchored the briefs under the boy's tight ball sac and ran his
fingers along the underside of the warm flesh of the cadet's penis, which
was thin and from base to tip covered in thick skin, ending in a wrinkled,
slightly open cap that angled back. The head of the penis, except for a
small patch around and above the piss hole was not exposed. A thick bush of
long, black, and barely curled pubic hairs completely encircled the boy's
cock and balls.

The Phantom slowly pulled the boy's foreskin down. The loose skin moved
freely and revealed a dark pink, almost purple knob. He ran his finger
along the warm, and very moist glans. The Phantom's touch was very gentle
and the boy reacted by arching his back and thrusting his hips upward. He
moaned softly and muttered unintelligibly, his body reacting to the
stimulus of the Phantom's hand. With his free hand the Phantom reached over
and began to stroke and fondle the tight, wrinkled ball sac while slowly
masturbating the boy. His hand moved upward and the knob was covered
completely, down again and the head was revealed. The Phantom did not
increase his rhythmic hand movement, but continued to stroke slowly down
and up.

The Phantom felt the boy's balls contract until they almost disappeared
into his body. The cadet began to thrust his hips in time with the
Phantom's strokes, fucking his hand. Suddenly the boy grunted loudly,
thrust his hips violently upward, and a thick stream of cum shot out of his
dick and landed on his hairless chest. The boy thrust and the Phantom
pumped and another, then another, less powerful stream of semen erupted
from the boy's cock, splattering his chest and his stomach, and dribbling
down the back of the Phantom's hand. As the cadet's thrusting lessened the
Phantom released him.

The Phantom raised his hand to his lips. His tongue flicked out and he
tasted the young cadet's cum. The taste of the watery ejaculate was not
bad, a little salty, but not bad at all. He licked his hand clean and then,
using the counterpane, wiped it dry of spittle. As he drew the counterpane
over the cadet's body The Phantom saw that the youth's dick had softened,
returning to normal size and that his balls had descended. The Phantom left
the boy's underpants as they were, and moved on.

This was the Band barracks and The Phantom was forced to use his flashlight
to navigate through the neat piles of boxed instruments and drums. He moved
toward the end of the row of bunks and stopped. The boy in the bunk beside
him had kicked his coverlet off. The cadet, unlike the other, was blond
and, from the length of him, tall. His golden blond hair, though cut short
on the sides and back, was slightly longer on top, and loosely curled. He
had a wide, firm-jawed, square face, with slim lips, which were tightly
closed. He was wearing pinstriped boxers, which made for easy access to the
treasure hidden under the soft cotton cloth.

The cadet looked to be older than the other boy, 17 or 18-years old by the
look of him, with a well developed chest, and firm, muscular thighs that
strained against the fabric of his boxers. The Phantom knelt down and
slowly spread the slit of the boxers as wide as he could. He saw that the
base of the boy's stomach was covered with a thick, wide, dark patch of
pubic hair. This boy, like the other, had not been circumcised. Not that
The Phantom cared. He considered himself an equal opportunity wanker.

The cadet's penis was thick and smooth-skinned. The tip, except for a small
round hole opening over the pee slit, was covered, the crisply outlined,
curving helmet crowning the shaft hidden by a thin film of skin. Wondering
if this was his night for foreskins, the Phantom wrapped his hand around
the four inches of soft, smooth boy meat.

Once again the Phantom watched the square-jawed face for a reaction. He
pulled the soft tube of flesh through the slit in the cadet's boxers and
then began to pump slowly. The penis in his hand stiffened and grew to
seven inches of thick cadet cock. The foreskin drew back, revealing the
perfect head. The cadet's body stiffened and he drew in a quick breath. His
hands clutched the coverlet as the Phantom slowly jerked him. The Phantom
continued to pump as he inserted his other hand into the cadet's underpants
and began to rub his finger against the boy's hair rimmed hole.

The boy reacted almost at once to the finger massage. He spread his legs a
little wider and the Phantom massaged the hole in sync with his pumping
action. The boy's breathing became ragged and The Phantom increased his
pace. The cadet's balls tightened and he began to moan and gasp, gulping
great drafts of air.

Using his thumb the Phantom stroked the boy's knob, lubricating it with the
precum that gushed and flowed from the piss hole. The boy made a yipping
noise, and thrust his hips. A fountain of thick cum blasted upward from the
engorged helmet of penis. The first wad hit the Phantom in the face,
sticking to his black ski mask. The Phantom quickly pointed the spewing
dick down and eruption after eruption flew forward and onto the moaning
cadet's hairless chest. The boy's dick spasmed twice more and the volcanic
eruption of semen subsided until only a few thick drops oozed out as the
Phantom pushed his hand forward, and then released the softening organ.

The Phantom stood up and quickly left the barracks. It was time to go. Two
in one night was pushing it. As his dark form melted into the shadows he
reached up and wiped the blob of cum from his mask with his finger. He
lifted to his lips and tasted. "Sweet," he thought as he ran his tongue
around his finger, devouring every drop of the cadet's thick juice.

As he skirted the end of the Buglers Barracks The Phantom made a mental
note to bring along a handkerchief or piece of cloth the next time he
visited the Spit. There was no need to have that sweet juice splatter all
over the donor. No need at all.

It was the early morning hours of Monday, the 5th of July 1976. Summer
training had only started. By the time it ended in mid-August, 800 to 1,000
cadets would have passed through HMCS AURORA. The Phantom shuddered in
anticipation.

******

A week had gone by. The training program was well established and the
cadets had settled into their daily routines. The Phantom was sitting on
the loading dock leading to the Mess Hall galley, smoking a forbidden
cigarette and waiting for the afternoon Swimming Parade to start. He
glanced at his watch. 1610. Afternoon classes were over, the First Dog
Watchmen had been fed, and his time was his own until 1700, when most of
the cadet population ate. The Phantom, who had been working here since he
was 14, knew with relative surety exactly what was happening at any given
moment of the day.

A cadet's workday started at 0600 and only ended at 2000. So intense was
their training that no leave was allowed, except for supervised day trips
on Saturdays. To get off Heron Spit, where HMCS AURORA was located was,
except for a medical emergency, almost impossible if you were a cadet.

The Phantom, however, was not a cadet. He was a civilian employee, working
in the galley. Two years ago, in 1974, he had worked with the contractors
who had built the barracks and refurbished the few buildings still standing
when the Heron Spit Ranges had been converted for use by the Sea
Cadets. His work had taken him from the thin isthmus of land that connected
the Spit to the mainland, to the cluster of buildings in the middle of the
Spit, to the wide, barren, sea washed end. The Phantom knew every inch of
Heron Spit.

For two years The Phantom and his brother Brendan, who was now in Regina
learning how to be a Queen's Cowboy, together with Sam and George, two
full-blooded Homalco Indians, had found summer employment when the
Esquimalt Sea Cadet Camp was closed and HMCS AURORA was transformed into
the main Sea Cadet Training Establishment for the Pacific region. Each
morning they would take the duty boat from the grandly named Naval Jetty in
Comox (actually a broken down pier next to the fishing docks) to a
jerry-built jetty on Heron Spit.

The four boys had help to build the four H-shaped barracks blocks that
housed the bulk of the cadet population, and had painted the Staff Cadet
Quarters located at the other end of the base, across from the Headquarters
Building and the Parade square. They also had worked on the long, wide
earthen and concrete causeway that had brought, through the pipes and
electrical conduits buried deep beneath the macadam surface, a constant
supply of fresh water from the mountain reservoirs and electricity from the
town's generators. Last summer all four boys had worked in the Ship's
galley.

In their free time, like all 15 and 16-year old boys, they had explored the
barren sand dunes and the thick forest that covered the lower portion of
the Spit, looking for relics of the days when the Royal Naval used the old
dockyard, and souvenirs from the days when the Royal Canadian Navy had a
presence here. They found little other than a few spent shell casings,
leftovers from the days when HMCS AURORA had been a gunnery range.

The blast of a ship's horn jolted The Phantom from his reverie. A YAG was
pulling alongside the long wooden jetty that thrust into Comox Harbour. The
jetty, together with the Boat Shed and two small outbuildings at the end of
the long pier, were known as the Dockyard. The high jetty, together with
the smaller finger piers, was located at the midpoint of the Spit. The
Dockyard was home to five YAGs, small wooden training vessels that spent
much of the time at sea in the Strait of Georgia, miscellaneous workboats,
whalers and small sailboats.

A second blast from the YAGs horn reminded The Phantom that his friend Sam
was away at sea, working on his father's deep-sea trawler. The Phantom
definitely did not miss his brother, nor did he particularly miss George,
who had found work as a counsellor in one of the summer camps that dotted
the island. As for Sam, well, he was missed, if only for the things they
did together, after school, in The Phantom's bedroom.

They had been best friends from the day they had first met in grade
school. They had done the usual little boy things, playing baseball
together, sleeping over at each other's house, arguing and fighting, as
boys will. Together they had explored their world. Together they had roamed
the length of the Comox Valley. Sam had taught The Phantom everything his
father had taught him about the forests. Thanks to Sam, The Phantom could
navigate his way through the dense forest to the north and west of Comox,
and live off the land. They had also, as sometimes happened discovered each
other. For want of a better term they had become lovers. Juvenile and so
far as The Phantom was concerned unsatisfactory and frustrating lovers.

The Phantom had known from very early on that if his father were looking
for grandchildren from him he would wait a long time. He liked boys in
general, and Sam in particular.

For a long time The Phantom had not acted on his desires. He knew what the
other boys would do to him if they even suspected that he lusted after
their smooth, hairless bodies. He had kept his secret from everyone,
including Sam. During their frequent sleepovers they slept in separate beds
and while they giggled and chattered the night away, they never broached
the subject of sex, except in the broadest terms, and they never touched
each other.

All that had changed the first night they had been allowed to go camping
alone. They had set up their tent on the beach of a small lake in the
foothills of Mount Washington. They had skinny dipped, but that was nothing
new. The boys had seen each other naked many times and swum together naked
in the school pool, where bathing suits were not allowed.

After their swim they had dressed in shorts and tees, built a small fire
and eaten. Soon it was time for bed. They had spread out their sleeping
bags beside each other and, as the night was hot, they stripped down to
their white briefs, lying on top of the bags. They talked quietly about
their day, about how much fun they had had and about how much fun they
would have tomorrow. Sam wanted to go around to the other side of the lake
where there was a summer camp for girls. Sam's innocent remark had led to a
serious discussion about girls, about which girl they wanted to kiss, about
which girl had begun to look decent now that she had started to grow tits,
and what exactly they were supposed to do if they found a girl willing to
do IT. The more they talked the larger became the bulges in their
briefs. As they talked The Phantom saw that Sam was rubbing his
boner. Without thinking of the consequences he had reached over and felt
the firm, warm flesh hidden under Sam's underpants. Sam had not protested
and he had let The Phantom stroke him. Then, much to the Phantom's
surprise, Sam had reached over and felt his boner. Before very long their
briefs were down around their knees.  The Phantom sighed at the memory of
their first jerk-off session. The next morning Sam had been distant, and
did not want to talk about what they had done. As the day progressed he
became more animated, and more communicative, but still he said nothing
about what they had done. That night The Phantom had gone to his sleeping
bag thinking that his friendship with Sam was over. Then Sam had reached
out and gently squeezed his dick.

>From that night they masturbated each other as often as they could, and
while their sessions together were frequent, they were conducted according
to Sam's rules. He came from a very traditional people, and being gay was a
horrible sin, cause for instant banishment from the Tribal Lands,
banishment that was complete, total, and forever. It did not mean that they
were doing anything gay. According to Sam's rules what they were doing was
just fooling around, just two friends helping each other out. It was not a
gay thing. It was a guy thing, and therefore not gay. They would jerk each
other's cock, but never to the point of ejaculation. When he approached his
climax Sam would push The Phantom's hand away and finish himself off. The
Phantom had to warn Sam when his own climax was near. Sam would pull away
and The Phantom would bring himself off.

Sam's intransigence and refusal to do anything else always left The Phantom
frustrated and angry, so much so that last summer he had begun his nightly
visits to the Spit.

Another blast of the YAG's horn caused The Phantom to shade his eyes and
watch as the small boat was smartly brought alongside. As he watched two
small figures, cadets detailed as jetty jumpers, nimbly jumped from the
boat to the jetty and threw the mooring lines over two of the iron bollards
that lined the jetty.

The Phantom had given much thought to visiting the cadets who lived on
board the YAGs. In the end he decided it was much too dangerous. While each
of the five small yard craft held some very tempting specimens, they
maintained a full Harbour Watch when alongside: a Duty Officer, a Duty
Petty Officer, and a Duty Quartermaster. The Dockyard was also too well
lit. There were no shadows, and too much open space. The Phantom
shrugged. There were plenty of other cadets closer at hand.

The memory of last night and the cadets he had serviced caused his dick to
stiffen. He felt the wetness as his throbbing penis leaked incessantly. His
boxers were damp with precum. He reached down and fingered the large bulge
in his white cook's trousers, moaning softly as a thrill of excruciating
desire passed through him. Hell and sheeit, was he horny!

Usually when he became this excited he would disappear into Canteen Stores
- after making sure that the Canteen Damager was elsewhere - and furiously
pump his six inches of hot, thick flesh, cumming quickly and so hard his
balls ached. Not now though. Ten minutes ago Young Brown, the Duty Bugler,
had sounded Secure. The cadets would be free for the next hour or so and
the Canteen was open. There would be no sneaking into Canteen Stores today,
not with a herd of nosy cadets wandering about. The Phantom also had plans
for the evening. There was a drummer who had caught his eye. He wanted to
visit the Cooks Mess. Two of the young trainee cooks looked very
interesting. He would force himself to wait until tonight.

To calm himself down The Phantom concentrated on the meal he would serve
soon. He did not mind standing on the steam line, but he preferred bussing
the tables. He heard a lot of gossip and cadet talk. Sometimes he got
really lucky and bussed the Chiefs table. They knew all the dirt, much of
it trivial, some of it very interesting.

He knew by heart the menu for each meal of every day of the week. There was
a standard menu served at every CF base from Newfyjohn to Squibbly and all
points north and south. Good, substantial food, but boring as hell. The
only thing that was different was the quality. If the Chief Cook was good,
so was the food. If he was bad, everyone ate at McDonald's or the local
equivalent.

The Chief Cook this year was good, and he made up for the blandness of the
meals by the quality and quantity of the desserts. The Chief Cook, a huge
man of well over 200 pounds, despite that fact that The Phantom had never
seen him eat anything substantial, had taken a shine to him, and was trying
to interest him in the art of cookery. Chef was a stickler for absolute
perfection, everything had to be copper-bottomed, even the Chinese Wedding
Cake they had made for duff. The dessert had to be absolutely perfect, even
though it only was rice pudding with raisins and currents. Second best
would not do at all.

The Phantom was jerked from his culinary musings when he heard his name
being called. He looked up to see the Twins passing by. He glanced at his
watch. 1620 and the Swim Parade had begun.  During the week the cadets had
free time from 1600 until the 1700, when they were piped to dinner. If the
day were hot, as today had been, they would all troop down to the small bay
at the northern end of the Spit, formed when the causeway had been built,
and go swimming.

The Swim Parade was a constant source of delight and frustration for The
Phantom. Almost every afternoon a steady stream of young, virile cadets
would saunter past. His delight was that many of the older cadets were
handsome and muscular, and bloody good to look at. His frustration was that
they all seemed to prefer wearing baggy swimming shorts, which showed
nothing.

The exceptions to the rule were the Twins. Each afternoon they seemed to
delight in wearing the skimpiest, thinnest bathing suits that they could
find. This afternoon, as usual, they were dressed more for shock than
swimming. The Twins were wearing identical cherry red Speedos, which left
absolutely nothing to the Phantom's imagination. Their parts were clearly,
and graphically outlined under the thin fabric of their trunks.

The Twins were not identical, but resembled each other and it was clear
that they were brothers. They were both slim and trim, the scanty Speedos
showing off their bronzed swimmers bodies to perfection. Their sun-bleached
golden hair was cut "high and wide", with just enough on the top to permit
a part on the left. The Phantom had first encountered them last year when
they were doing their Gunnery IIIs course. This year they were Gunnery
Staff and lived in the Gunroom, a small cabin in the Staff Barracks.

The Staff Barracks, a small, brick, former officers barracks, was located
in what was called the Lower Camp, across the Parade square. Here also were
located the barracks housing the Ship's carpenters, who were known as
Chippy Chaps, and the Engineering cadets, called Stokers. Further south,
and the last building at that end of the Spit, was the School of Music,
always called the School of Wind by the cadets.

The Phantom had never visited the Staff Barracks, which housed the Senior
Staff Cadets (for the most part Gunnery and Regulating Staff), the two
ranking cadets in the Chiefs Mess, the senior Chiefs and Petty Officers in
the Gunroom, and the junior Petty Officers in the adjoining Petty Officers
Mess. The Staff Barracks were located at the far end of the ship and while
he had no doubt he could navigate his way to the block, it was far easier
to confine his nocturnal visits to the four barracks blocks close at hand.

As they passed by the Twins gave The Phantom a wave and smiled broadly. The
Phantom returned their wave and smile, thinking that God they were
beautiful!  The Phantom sighed in frustration. The Twins had haunted his
dreams ever since he had met them last summer. They had filled his
nighttime fantasies, and he had beat off to their images, groaning his
desire to feel their slim, hard bodies, wanting to take their perfect cocks
in his mouth, imagining long, warm showers with them during the Middle
Watch.

What was even more frustrating was the knowledge that the Twins were
gay. They did not broadcast their sexual orientation. Neither did they deny
it. Everybody knew that the Twins were gay, yet nobody talked about
it. Well, nobody except Paul Greene, the Senior Drummer in the AURORA Band,
who was a jerk and a racist, and Roger Home, who was a Regulating Petty
Officer, and almost as big a peckerwood as Paul Greene. Both cadets never
let an opportunity slip by to slag off the Twins.

The Phantom could have understood the prejudice voiced by Greene and Home
if the Twins had been flagrant about their homosexuality. The opposite was
true. They might be as gay as ducks, but they never showed it, and they
never tried to put the moves on anybody. They never acted gay, whatever
acting gay meant. Their swimming suits aside, the most outrageous thing
about them was that they never wore underwear if they could help it or, if
they did wear underwear their briefs were hardly ever the ubiquitous white,
almost always being the most violent of reds and greens, yellows and
purples. Which meant nothing. Mal Wooten, a skinny Petty Officer Boatswain,
was just as outrageous in his choice of underpants, at least according to
Willy Carlyle and Jack Spencer, who had the misfortune to live in the same
Mess as Mal. The Phantom had eavesdropped at lunch and had overheard Willy
and Jack railing at Mal about his choice of underwear. They also complained
hotly about some sort of ritual that Mal insisted on performing on
awakening, something called "Airing the Monster", which sounded
interesting. Unfortunately Chef had called him away before Willy and Jack
got into the details.

The point though was that the Twins did not deserve the name-calling, or
the slagging. The worst that could be said about them was that they were
not above copping a quick feel if the opportunity presented itself. The
cadets knew that they did it, and either took pains to avoid placing their
genitals in harm's way, or accepted the feel for what it was, a quick feel,
harmless in itself and meaning nothing, childish pranks confined to their
friends and messmates. The Twins never did anything to the younger cadets.

Thinking about the antics of the Twins The Phantom presumed that he was now
a friend, or at the least someone the Twins wanted for a friend for they
had renewed acquaintances, in a manner of speaking.

The first time had been in the Mess Hall, while he was bussing the
tables. The Phantom had bent over to pick up a dropped fork when a hand
darted between his legs and groped him. Not hard, but it startled him. He
had jerked forward and ended up sliding nose first along the polished tile
floor, much to the amusement of the cadets seated at the surrounding
tables.

The second time had been when he was standing on line in the Canteen. One
Twin, Cory, the one with the softer features, was behind him. The Phantom
should have expected something. He had not and was more than a little
surprised when he felt a hand on his right butt cheek, kneading and
fondling his tight orb. When he turned around, Cory was gone, replaced by
Todd, the other Twin, with his arms crossed and looking as innocent as all
get out.

The Phantom, instead of being angry, had felt flattered. If the Twins were
interested enough to give him a quick feel, he would certainly make no
objection, just as he would make no objection if the Twins came on to
him. He certainly hoped they would. They were sexy and horny. He was horny
and, so far as he was concerned, sexy. He knew that he was not all that bad
to look at. He had a firm, muscular, well-tanned body, light brown hair and
emerald green eyes. He had a nice dick, smooth and neatly circumcised, and
a good set of balls. Tramping around the Forbidden Plateau with Sam had
kept his muscles tight. If anything, the only thing he did not like were
his slightly jugged ears. All in all a good piece of goods, which he hoped
one day the Twins might want to inspect.

The Twins disappeared up the beach, their place on the pathway taken by the
Cadet Master at Arms, Chief Petty Officer Tyler Benbow, and the Cadet Chief
Gunnery Instructor, Chief Petty Officer Val Orsini. They were two of the
oldest cadets. They were also the Senior Ranking Cadets and unlike the
Twins these two cadets were conservatively dressed in multicoloured
swimming shorts. Each had a towel draped around his neck and shoulders.

The Master At Arms, called The Jaunty by the cadets, was a shade over six
feet tall, with a fine, deeply muscled body, and firm, square face. Like
the Twins his copper coloured hair was cut high and wide, although the hair
on the top was longer, and very curly. The Phantom noticed that The Master
at Arms had a delicious treasure trail of bright red, coarse hair that
trailed down his firm stomach and disappeared into the fabric of his blue,
red and gold swimming shorts. His fair skin was tanning nicely. This would
be his last year as a Sea Cadet. In September he would be entering Royal
Roads as a Naval Cadet.

The Cadet Chief Gunner was shorter, and darker, with fine Mediterranean
features. He had a smooth, well set-up body, a handsome oval face, and dark
brown, smouldering eyes. Like the Jaunty his dark brown hair was cut high
and wide, short on top and neatly parted on the left. Unlike the Master at
Arms he had a v-shaped patch of soft black hair on his chest. His legs were
lightly dusted with equally black fur. He had no treasure trail to speak
of. He did have a cute button of a navel, which The Phantom found
intriguing. He wondered what it tasted like.

As the Senior Cadets, the Master at Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunner enjoyed
great prestige and power. The Master at Arms had been handpicked by the
Commanding Officer. The Chief Gunner, like all the Gunnery Instructors and
Parade GI's, including the Twins, had been handpicked by the Chief Gunnery
Instructor (Parade and Training), a Whale Island trained, Permanent Force,
Leading Gunner.

The Cadet Regulating Petty Officers, together with the Cadet Master at
Arms, were responsible for maintaining good order and discipline. The
Master at Arms, at 18, and well trained in his job, was respected and very
rarely used his considerable powers. As the saying went, he wore his rank
well. The junior cadets liked him and were for the most part - except for
the Twins, who always seemed to be in the rattle - very well behaved.

While they had prestige and power, the only privilege the Jaunty and the
Gunner enjoyed was the small cabin they shared next to the Gunroom. As the
two senior cadets passed on toward the beach The Phantom thought that he
definitely should reconsider visiting the Staff Barracks.  The parade of
swimmers continued. Some boatswains, who were tasty looking, but a little
skinny, ambled past. Then came a stern faced, intense, bespectacled
Hospital Attendant, followed by two of the Crushers.

Of the five Crushers, the two walking down the path were the least
respected. Not because they did not know what they were doing. They
did. They each had at least four years experience in the Regulating
Branch. The problem was that they knew their jobs too well, and had read
Queen's Regulations and Instructions for Sea Cadets once too often. As the
Ship's policemen they were very aware of the power their rank and
appointment gave them. They both tended to bluster and make it quite clear
that they had the authority to make life very miserable for anyone who came
to their attention. Their attitude was not helped by their nicknames, which
everybody knew. Everybody knew exactly why Regulating Petty Officer Roger
Home was called Two Strokes, and why Regulating Petty Officer Tom Vernon
was called Thumper.

Two Strokes, like Thumper, was wearing tight, khaki, US Navy issue swim
shorts, the fruits of intense trading and negotiating with US Sea Cadets on
an exchange visit. He was tall and slim with short, regulation cut, dark
brown hair. He had a thin, vulpine face, and bore a remarkable resemblance
to the actor who played Mr. Spock, the Vulcan of the TV series, Star Trek.

Two Strokes had earned his nickname as a direct result of his first, and so
far as anyone knew, only, sexual encounter, which had happened last
summer. As there was a shortage of classrooms in the Ship, Highland
Secondary School was leased and most of the classroom instruction was held
there. The cadets would eat lunch in the school cafeteria and one of the
girls who worked on the serving line had fallen well and truly in lust with
the cadet who would become known as Two Strokes.

Roger had, at first, resisted the girl's come-ons. He was flattered of
course, but saw little chance of a meeting. Except for being bussed to and
from the ship to the school, he never got off the Spit. As luck would have
it, fate intervened in the form of a goodbye banyan on the last night of
training. All the civilians, including the staff from the school, were
invited. Boy and girl met, boy and girl found a private place. Nature took
what turned out to be its disastrous course.

It was unfortunate that the young cadet had been found wanting. It was
equally unfortunate that the young lady chose to regale her female cronies
with the outcome of her exploit, describing in graphic detail exactly what
had happened. She had not been pleased or satisfied and had ended her
tirade cruelly, announcing loudly "he was finished in two strokes! And my
little brother is bigger than he is!"

That she chose to vent her spleen in the local teen hangout was, for the
young cadet, catastrophic. At another booth two cadets from RCSCC PORT
AUGUSTA, the Comox unit, listened intently. They had crossed swords with
the young Crusher, and they were not about to let something as juicy as
this go past. From the moment they left the restaurant Two Strokes was well
and truly named.

Thumper, on the other hand, had earned his nickname in a much more prosaic
manner. He was a short, well set up, dark blond, and handsome
teenager. Like Two Strokes he had attended AURORA last summer, as a Course
Cadet, a normal, happy-go-lucky cadet. Everybody liked him. Unfortunately
in the fifth week of his course he had entered full-blown puberty. He had
been thirteen years and seven months old.

The six or seven public hairs he had when he arrived had suddenly become a
miniature forest. His dick took to doing strange things. The thing seemed
to have a mind of its own, hardening at the most inopportune times, in the
classroom, on the parade square, in the showers. It was downright
embarrassing!  Thumper, at first, resisted temptation. While he was no
stranger to beating off, doing it in a barracks surrounded by 40 other boys
was not something he felt comfortable doing. A guy never knew who might be
listening!

He resisted temptation until one fateful night when he awoke with what
could only be described as a raging hardon. He needed relief badly so he
reached down and began stroking. Much to his surprise his orgasm was so
intense that he almost fainted. He also ejaculated for the first time,
covering his stomach and chest with a huge eruption of semen. He had lain
in his bunk, not believing what had happened to him, fingering his iron
hard penis, which refused to go down.

As he played with himself the wonderful feelings began to return. His
natural caution forgotten, he moaned loudly as he approached another
orgasm, which caused him to stop abruptly his pumping. He knew the ridicule
he would endure if the other guys caught him jerking off in bed. Rather
than risk discovery he scurried from his bunk and into the heads where he
locked himself in one of the cubicles and beat himself into a second mind
numbing orgasm.

>From that moment on he could not help himself. He did not care if the guys
laughed at him. He did not care if the guys knew what he was doing. All he
cared about were the glorious feelings that soared through his young
body. At every opportunity he would disappear into the heads and beat
off. He was doing it five and six or more times a day. His dick would rise
up proud. His cum would roil and boil in his balls. He had to do it. Every
time he blew his load was better than the last. He beat off so much that
his dick was raw. The Principal Medical Officer threatened to make him wear
woollen mittens. The Chaplain (P), a kindly young priest whom the Cadets
affectionately called Dirty Dave the Deacon, lectured him on the sins of
masturbation. Thumper did not care. Fuck the sins of masturbation. He was
revelling in the joys of masturbation. It felt sooo good when he did it. He
choked his chicken in his bunk after Lights Out. He spanked the monkey in
the showers in the middle of the night. It got so bad that some of the
younger cadets would not open a locker door for fear that Thumper would be
in there mangling the midget. All the cadets adamantly refused to shake his
hand.

The Phantom had heard that Thumper had calmed down quite a bit, although
the Master at Arms would not let him stand the Middle and Morning Watches
alone. Rumour was that now Thumper only played the skin flute once or twice
a day. The Phantom wondered what Thumper's reaction would be to another
hand doing the work for him. Perhaps it was time he reconsidered visiting
the Staff Barracks.

The Phantom stood up, crushed his cigarette under his heel of his boot and
gave Thumper's retreating ass an approving appraisal. Yes, a visit to the
Staff Barracks was definitely to be considered.

******

The Phantom entered the galley and walked to one of the two long, stainless
steel serving tables that bisected the galley. He began to cut tomatoes,
preparing them for the salad bar. He did this deliberately. He wanted to
avoid Chef, who was in a mood.

Chef, the Chief Cook, was a huge, teddy bear of a man, with a loud, profane
voice and sad, knowing eyes. He was a man of firm convictions and not a few
prejudices, He worked hard and he hated idleness in all its forms and he
believed that an idle cook was an idle slacker of a man, or, in this
galley, boy. Chef liked to see his slaves busy.

The Phantom glanced around and saw Ray Cornwallis, the Cook Petty Officer,
a short, dark haired, pleasant natured 16-year old, and Alexandr
Signaransky, whom everyone called Sandro, a tall, stocky, curly-haired
young man who claimed to be the only full-blooded Russian Jew in the RCSCC
Cookery Branch, which at first confused The Phantom. So far as he knew all
Jewish boys were circumcised. Sandro had not been circumcised. The Phantom
had seen Sandro in the heads. He had a long, thick dick, with a large knob
at the end of his shaft, the curving head half-covered with thick skin.

Sandro, who had noticed the curious looks, not only from The Phantom but
also from Ray, had explained that in Russia, where he had been born, all
religions except for the Russian Orthodox Church were forbidden. Jews were
not permitted to practice one of the main tenets of their faith, which was
why he still possessed his foreskin. He then informed the two curious boys
that he was studying his religion (he attended synagogue every Friday
evening) and that in September he was having his bris, which he assured the
grimacing boys, was purely symbolic, as he would be circumcised in
hospital. Sandro took his religion very seriously and was looking forward
to the day when he became a true son of the House of Abraham. The Phantom
and Ray, who had both been circumcised as babies, wondered what the fuss
was all about.

Behind him The Phantom could hear Chef muttering and grumbling as he
shuffled his way through a pile of papers. Chef was trying to balance his
budget and getting nowhere fast, which would bring another run-in with the
Supply Officer. He and Lieutenant Dickensen, the Ship's bean counter, had
already had one flaming row; with another in the offing if Chef's figures
did not balance.  The Phantom returned to his tomatoes. He was slicing away
when he became aware of the distinctive click, click, click, of half-metal
heels crossing the tiled floor of the Mess Hall. The door opened and the
Chief Gunnery Instructor entered the galley. The Phantom felt his dick
stir, reached for an apron and put in on. It would help to hide his hardon.

Back in June The Phantom had been sitting outside the Mess Hall peeling
potatoes when a battered, navy blue, Range Rover drew up alongside the
building. Out of it had stepped the Leading Gunner seconded from CFB
Esquimalt as Chief Gunnery Instructor (Parade & Training). The Phantom had
been so taken at the sight of the man that he had upset the fanny of
freshly peeled potatoes. The Leading Gunner had helped him clean up the
mess, and then disappeared into the building, The Phantom's eyes devouring
the firm-bodied Leading Seaman.

The Phantom did not know it, but he had been struck by the thunderbolt. For
the first time in his young life he was in love. His mind was in turmoil,
unable to understand the feelings that engulfed him whenever he even looked
at The Gunner. He could not understand why he was so attracted to the
man. He had always been attracted to boys, boys his own age, and until now
he had never been interested in older men. None of his teachers in high
school, and there were several prime specimens, had affected him the way
the Chief Gunnery Instructor had.

The Phantom had always been attracted to teenage boys, good-looking boys
who caused a definite tingle in his nether regions, boys who were known as
hunks. His school was full of such boys. The Cadet Master at Arms was a
hunk. The Twins were hunks. The Chief GI was definitely not a hunk. He was
not bad looking, but hell and sheeit, he was kind of old. At least ten,
maybe 12 years older than he was. The Phantom could not understand how he
could be attracted to a guy at least 27 or 28 years old!

Still, The Gunner was attractive and there was something about him that The
Phantom found intriguing and appealing. Leading Seaman Winslow, for that
was his name though everybody called him The Gunner, stood just short of
six feet tall, with a full, strong face, and a fine aristocratic, straight
nose. His jade-green eyes sparkled with life and vitality. His uniform
trousers clearly outlined his flawless, melon-like butt, which sensuously
curved to form long, muscled, well-proportioned legs. His light brown hair
was cut high and wide, with just enough on the top to permit a part on the
left.

The Phantom had seen The Gunner in his swimming gear, a pair of overlarge
army shorts, when he helped the General Training Cadets learn how to
swim. His chest was broad, neatly muscled and formed, with small, perfectly
round, pinkish-brown nipples. His stomach was flat with a small navel
receding into the muscular flesh. His arms, although not overly muscular,
were well formed and hard, and covered, like his legs, with a light dusting
of sun-bleached hair. Except for his eyelashes, which were long, dark, and
thick, there was nothing boyish or feminine about him.

So far as the Phantom knew The Gunner was as straight as an arrow. Which
made him somehow even more intriguing and desirable. So desirable that The
Phantom found himself jerking off while thinking of the Chief Gunnery
Instructor.

To make matters worse The Gunner was always kind to him. He always spoke,
and kidded and joked with him, unlike the rest of the Instructors and
cadets. There was a definite them and us attitude among the cadets and the
rest of the world. The cadets all stuck together in their own little
cliques and factions. The officers stuck together like shit to a
blanket. The Gunners slept in the same Mess and they all ate together. The
Musicians, Boatswains, the General Training Cadets, the New Entries, all
slept, ate, and played together, inhabiting their own small worlds that
refused entry to anyone who was not one of them. The cadets might tolerate
an outsider. They rarely accepted one.

The cadets were us. The Phantom, a civilian, and not a cadet, was therefore
one of them. Except for Chef, who seemed genuinely fond of him, and the
cadet cooks, with whom he worked every day, the only Staff or Cadet
Instructor who treated him decently was The Gunner, who at least
acknowledged him, talked to him and did not look at him like he was part of
the fixtures and fittings.

******

The Gunner walked over to where The Phantom was working, stopped, and
mussed the boy's hair. "How's it hanging, Phantom?" he asked pleasantly.

"Hangin' OK, Gunner," The Phantom lied, hoping to God that The Gunner would
not see that he had a hardon.

"Good for you," replied The Gunner. He cocked his head and then nodded
toward Chef, who was sitting at the battered, old, wooden table he used as
a desk, scowling at a pile of papers. "He in a mood?"

The Phantom nodded. "The Supply Officer was in earlier. Chef has been like
a bear with a sore pecker ever since."

"My, such language, boychick," said The Gunner, grinning widely. "Chef will
be washing your mouth out with soap if you don't look out."

"He wouldn't, would he?" asked the Phantom apprehensively.

"No, I wouldn't let him," replied the Gunner as he helped himself to a
slice of tomato. "Keep your pecker up, kiddo." He downed the slice of
tomato, and then winked at The Phantom. "Gotta go smooth the waters."

The Gunner walked over to the large fridge, opened it, and peered
inside. Although it was against regulations to drink alcohol when the
cadets were around Chef, abetted by The Gunner, kept a small supply of beer
in the fridge for medicinal purposes. "I hope my property is still intact,
Chef," he said as he ostentatiously counted the bottles of beer. "Or did
you drink it all?"

Chef and The Gunner were wingers from away back. They had completed two
commissions together, and were great friends. "It's right where you left
it," rumbled Chef. "Behind the canned cow. And yes I will, thank you." He
pushed the pile of papers aside.

The Gunner pulled out two bottles of beer, uncapped them and sat down at
the table. He placed one bottle in front of Chef. "I hear the Tizzy
Snatcher came to call." He took a long swallow of beer. "Have you been
fiddling the books again?"  "I have not!" growled Chef, affecting an
offended air. "The little bastard was all over me about Father's
anniversary bun fight." He took a large swallow of beer, smacked his lips,
and glared at The Gunner. "That bloody useless commissioned idiot hasn't
been in a Dog Watch and he's telling me how to make sticky buns and
sangies. The man couldn't organize a two-man rush on a ten-man shitter, so
he could couldn't! Fuckin' little cocksucker!"

"You shouldn't call him that," the Gunner replied seriously.

"Call him what?" demanded Chef.

"A cocksucker. I hear he's trying to quit." The Gunner raised his bottle in
a toast and grinned.

Chef choked and trembled with laughter. "Ah, you wee bugger! You always get
me." His face tightened. "But seriously, Stevie, the man is driving me
mad!"

"The Supply Officer is not the only one," replied The Gunner, an
exasperated look on his face. "All you have to do is cook and make sure the
food is ready. I have to get the troops drilled up. Damn it, Chef, I've had
the Executive Officer beating a path to my door, the Old Man calls every
hour and now Dirty Dave the Deacon has put in his oar."

"What?" Chef sat up and scowled at The Gunner. "He had better not be
looking at my boys for any of his flummery! They have enough to do, so they
have." He stood up and waved a hammy fist in the general direction of the
cadets and The Phantom. "You little brats are all on duty for Father's
party. You too, Phantom."

The three boys, accustomed to Chef's bellowing and blustering, shouted
"Yes, Chef!" in acknowledgement, and carried on with their work.

"Little hard on them, Chef?" questioned Guns.

"It keeps the little darlin's in line, does it not?" returned Chef with a
grin.

"And look who is talking. The man without a heart and the eyes of an
eagle."

"A vulture, actually," replied The Gunner, returning Chef's grin. "I also
have eyes in the back of my head. At least according to Little Big Man."

Chef shuddered at the mention of Little Big Man. He polished off his beer
and went to the fridge and brought out two more bottles. "That little
fucker is gonna call Phantom a fag once too often. Then I'll do to Band
Petty Officer Greene what the Rabbi is going to do to Sandro next
month. Only I'll use a cleaver," he said sitting down. He made a sweeping,
cutting motion. The he cracked his beer and took a swig.

"Pardon?"

Chef indicated Sandro. "Sandro must be clipped. He cannot be a proper
Jewish boy unless he does. 'Tis the Law and there are no exceptions."

The Gunner winced. "Sounds painful."

Chef waved his hand in dismissal. "Not at all, Stevie, not at all. The lad
just goes into the hospital and the Quack does the dirty on him. The Rabbi
says some prayers and Sandro is legal." He took another swig of his
beer. "I am in the minyan," he finished with pride.

"The minyan? You? What minyan?"

"Sandro asked me to be a part of the minyan," replied Chef with exaggerated
patience. "He tells me that after he's healed he has to take a special bath
in the Synagogue. Afterward there are prayers. To say prayers there has to
be 10 guys, a minyan." He folded his arms across his expansive chest and
beamed with pride. "He did not ask some officer. He did not ask you. He
asked me!"

The Gunner had known Chef for years and knew that Chef had had a rough time
of it early on in his career, including a failed marriage that had hurt him
deeply. He had never remarried and had always avoided getting close to his
young charges. Sandro had for some reason touched a chord deep within
Chef's soul and his asking Chef to share in one of the most momentous
occasions in his life pleased the old fellow tremendously. Still, The
Gunner could not resist poking Chef with a stick. "Chef, you are not
Jewish," he said with a shake of his head.  "Half the time you're not even
Christian!"

Chef began sputtering angrily. "Fuck you," he snapped. "I don't have to be
Jewish. All I have to be is male and own a Jewish party hat. And I have got
one, thank you." He glared at The Gunner. "You remember Rosen's wedding? I
kept the hat."

The Gunner shuddered. He remembered the wedding, as did the Night Manager
of the Lord Nelson Hotel and the Halifax Police Department. They never
should have had those horse races in the hall. He shook his head at the
memory of it. "What a night!"

Chef grinned. He too remembered the aftermath Rosen's wedding. "That was
some party."

"It sure was," replied The Gunner with a huge grin. "And it's called a
yarmulke, Chef."

Chef grinned back. "A hat by any other name is still a hat," he said
stubbornly.  The Gunner gave up. Sometimes he ate the bear. Sometimes the
bear ate him.

"Now then, what's this about the Vicar?" asked Chef, the wedding and the
yarmulke forgotten.

The Gunner made a face. "Dirty Dave is organizing a Church Parade. He's
convinced Jimmy the One that 50 years in the Andrew rates more than
Midshipmen's nuts and cold coffee in the Drill Shed."

"The Old Man's been in 50 years?" asked Chef, surprised that anyone could
put up with the Navy for that many years.

The Gunner nodded his confirmation. "If you had read his biography, as I
did," he said archly, "you would know that the Old Man joined the Andrew in
September of 1926 as a Cadet at Osborne Royal Navy College. On the 3rd of
September he'll have been in 50 years."

"However did he manage it?" Chef shook his head in wonder. NOBODY lasted
fifty years in the Navy.

"Rum, bum and baccy?" offered The Gunner.

Chef thought a moment. "Sure then I'm in for the long haul, so I am! I have
the rum, and no danger. I have the baccy." He grinned lasciviously at The
Gunner. "And would you be having any spare bum that you aren't using?" he
asked, laughing.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, you fat gut robber."

"I am not fat," replied Chef indignantly. "I am well upholstered."

Before The Gunner could reply the tannoy overhead grumbled to life. The
bugled notes of Hands to Dinner filled the galley. Chef glared at the
speaker and stood up. "Time to go to work." He looked around the galley and
then let out a roar. "Phantom, those tomatoes will do no good sitting on
that table. There are hungry lads to feed so stir your stumps. Ray, Sandro,
get cracking." He looked at Guns. "Will you be eating, Stevie darling'? I
can make you something special."

"I can't," replied The Gunner with a shake of his head. "Joel is coming in
today. I also have Defaulters." He rolled his eyes expressively. "The
Twins."

At the mention of the Twins, and Defaulters, Chef snickered. He had been a
witness to the Twins' cause of grief, and in truth thought the matter quite
funny. He also knew who Joel was, and he knew exactly what Joel's
relationship was with his friend. He sobered and stared directly at The
Gunner. "Be careful, Stevie," he warned quietly. "There are lots that would
not understand about you and Joel. Especially the cadets."

"The cadets are hardly interested in my personal life, Chef!" returned The
Gunner with some heat. "To them I am just another nuisance sent to plague
their young lives. Besides, come the end of August I'm out of here, back to
the Fleet. By Labour Day they'll have forgotten all about me."

Chef was about to reply that he had two pigs out back all gassed up and
ready to fly, then thought better of it. Stevie never believed the
influence he had on the young cadets, or that they would remember him for
years to come. "You keep scarin' the shit out of the lads with those damn
clickers on your boots and they will remember you," he replied.

"Those clickers save me a lot of trouble," replied The Gunner. "They hear
me coming and settle down right quick." He stood up and finished his beer
in one gulp. "Before very long I will just be a bad memory to all of them."
He gave Chef a half-salute and left the galley.

Maybe for some, Chef silently agreed. A look of sadness came into his
eyes. He had seen the way Phantom looked at The Gunner. He stood up and
went into the dining hall.

******

The bugle call had barely died away when the doors leading from the roadway
slammed open and the horde descended, heading for the serving line. Chef,
Ray and Sandro began dishing out the hot food to the hungry cadets. The
Phantom made sure that the salad bar was kept filled and from time to time
he glanced around the huge room. Though it was a combined mess, and
officers, Instructors, Staff and cadets all ate in the same room, they all
had their separate tables and corners.

In the far corner sat the Supply Officer and the Vicar. Nearby was a
clearly separate table, which was the "Chiefs Mess", where the Cadet Master
at Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunner, now changed into the rig of the day,
white bell-bottom trousers, stiffly starched gunshirts, and mirror-shined
boots, ate together. Their round, white sailors caps were neatly stacked at
the end of their table.

Near the doors the buglers and musicians from the School of Wind occupied
two long tables. Nearby sat both of the cadets that The Phantom had visited
the first night. They were laughing and skylarking. Loosely draped over the
back of the tall blond boy's chair was his Drum Major Sash. He was Drum
Major of the Bugle Band. The other cadet was "Sticks", the Lead Drummer in
the Bugle Band. Both cadets were from Quebec and were chattering away in
what passed for French in their home province.

At another table Two Strokes and Thumper sat with the other two Regulating
Petty Officers. One, a handsome black youth, was dressed in the rig of the
day. The other three had cleaned into night clothing, blue bell-bottoms and
white, blue-piped T-shirts. The Phantom noticed that all four Crushers
seemed to pay more attention to what the cadets were doing than to their
food. "The bastards never miss a trick," he thought.

The crews from the YAGs wandered in. They were all dressed in work dress,
blue denim trousers and shirts. The cadets who crewed the YAGs lived on
board their boats but when in port ate in the Mess Hall.

The Phantom saw the Twins busily table-hopping. That they were shortly to
appear before the Executive Officer at Defaulters did not seem to be
bothering them at all. They were very social young animals and their high
spirits were infectious. All the cadets, with one notable exception, put up
with their antics.

The Phantom looked down the dining hall and saw the one notable exception
slither in. So did Chef, who took up a position beside The Phantom and
squeezed his arm. "If that spawn of the Devil starts I shall take me
cleaver to him!" Chef promised grimly.

Except for officers, Chef did not dislike many people. For all his bluster,
he was a warm-hearted man, and in his own way devoted to his cadets. His
feelings extended to The Phantom. Chef called all his trainees and The
Phantom his lambs. Insult one of Chef's lambs and you insulted him.

"He's been pretty quiet, Chef," replied The Phantom. He gave Chef a small
smile. "Not like last year."

"Just so, laddie, and don't you be about beating the bejesus out of him
like you did last summer," Chef warned. He gave The Phantom a slight nudge
with his elbow. "Unless you do it when nobody is looking."

Band Petty Officer Paul Greene, the object of Chef's dislike was a short
(he was barely five feet tall), and very thin cadet. He had straw-coloured
hair, which while buzzed at the sides and back, was very long on top. He
had a thin, rat-like face, and an antagonistic disposition. He was disliked
by almost all the other cadets, to the extent that they called him by his
nickname, Little Big Man, to his face. He had been gifted with that name
the year before when, like all of this year's Staff Cadets, he had been on
course.

******

>From the day of his first arrival in July of 1975, Little Big Man had
given promise of being a lifelong pain in everybody's ass. He was in
everyone's Mess but nobody's Watch. He talked a lot and managed to avoid
most of the work. Like many boys of his age he professed to great virility,
and boasted, at length, of his conquests in his home unit, RCSCC FALKLAND
where, according to him, he had cut a wide swathe through the Ottawa
Wrenette Corps, a member of which had, or so he claimed, popped his cherry
for him when he was 12. He crowed that he could not wait until September,
when the Wrenettes would be enrolled into the Sea Cadets, which made him,
as far as most of his fellow cadets were concerned, about as popular as
case of crab lice. They might like girls, but not in their Sea Cadet
Corps. At every opportunity Little Big Man tried to prove his maleness, to
demonstrate how masculine he was, to show the world that not only did he
have balls, but that they clanged when he walked. He strutted, he
bragged. Those who believed him, or pretended to, were real guys. Those who
thought he was as full of shit as a Christmas goose were either fags or
queers, sometimes both. By the end of his first week in AURORA he had
managed to piss off just about everybody, particularly the Twins.

The Twins had known very early on that they were gay. They had experimented
with each other, and had liked and felt comfortable with what they
did. They had experimented with other boys, but in the long run preferred
each other. They had accepted their sexuality. They harmed no one and,
while they played grab ass at every opportunity, they had never put the
moves on anyone. Most of the other boys accepted that the Twins were the
Twins. They looked, and acted, just like everybody else. Hell, they were
everybody else. They swam like otters and played baseball and soccer with
all the grace and movement of pros. As gunners many, including The Gunner,
considered them to be the best, to the extent that they were Captains of
the field gun crews. Their drill was impeccable, their uniforms the envy of
all.

Little Big Man could not stand their popularity. He could not understand
how two fags could be so accepted. He could not understand that nobody gave
a rat's ass if the Twins were gay. What he could not understand he hated,
and he verbalized his hatred at every opportunity.

At first the Twins had put up with his slurs with surprising
equanimity. They had come across boys like Little Big Man before. He was,
like it or not, merely a foretaste of what lay ahead for them. They
tolerated his abuse until one morning he accused Cory of staring at his
morning woody tenting his soiled briefs. He accused Todd, who had gone to
his brother's defence, of wanting to suck it. As expected, a minor scuffle
ensued, which was broken up by the other cadets. From that moment the war
was on.

The Twins were expert at talking queer, and could, when they wanted to,
behave as if they were the two biggest queens to come down the pike in
years. If Little Big Man wanted queers, he would get queers. If he could
queer bash, they could straight bash.

They used their expertise against Little Big Man. At every opportunity they
loudly proclaimed their admiration for the shape of his butt, the sexy way
he walked, the luscious curve of his lips. They exclaimed at the sweet
tightness of his little (if the truth were told) basket when he wore his
swimming suit. They followed him to the heads every time he went for a
piss, begging to be allowed to see it. They called him Sweet Thing and Big
Man, always emphasizing the big. Whenever they went to shower they invited
him to join them. His violent, verbal refusals only made the Twins try
harder. They answered Little Big Man's every slur with saccharin allusions
to lustful activities down by the water after dark.

The Twins' campaign of ridicule proved to be infectious. The older cadets
quickly learned that following their lead kept Little Big Man off their
backs and was a hell of a lot of fun into the bargain. They would trade
insults with Little Big Man, or blow kisses at him, and walk away, leaving
him impotent with rage. They knew that he could not retaliate with his
fists. Fighting was one of the few crimes, other than possessing booze or
drugs, which would result in his immediate return to his home unit. The
younger cadets, who shared the older cadets' opinion of Little Big Man,
took to giggling and making sucking noises whenever his backed was turned.

It did not take Little Big Man long to realize what the Twins were doing to
him and like most bullies, having more than met his match and, being a
coward, he cut his losses and looked for other targets. The New Entries and
General Training Cadets were easy targets, so long as there were no Chiefs
or senior Petty Officers around, at least until Two Strokes heard him
threatening the platoon of New Entries. He chased Little Big Man from the
parade square and threatened to lay a beating on him if he ever tried that
trick again.

Denied access to the General Training Cadets and the New Entries, Little
Big Man turned to the only group over which he had any control, the
Band. He was Sticks, or Lead Drummer in the Ship's Band, a position that
carried a great deal of authority. Determined to take his frustrations out
on somebody Little Big Man abused his authority over the drummers, until
Chief Harry von Hohenberg, the Band Drum Major, smacked him upside his head
and demoted him to playing the cymbals.

When Harry was made Sea Daddy to the New Entry Cadets, and gave notice that
he would thump anyone who came near them, Little Big Man, with no victims
available to him became, if possible, even more sullen, reduced to muttered
curses and snide remarks. Except for the small group of cadets from his
home unit everyone was a faggot. All in all it was not a good summer for
Little Big Man. It got considerably worse just days before the cadets were
due to go home, when he met The Phantom head on.

As a civilian employee The Phantom worked either in the galley or in the
Main Dining Room and except when serving them their food he had little
day-to-day contact with the cadets. This did not mean that he did not know
exactly what was going for he had learned early on to keep his eyes and
ears open and his mouth firmly shut. He had also learned that since he was
not one of them, and not part of their world, the cadets tended to forget
that he was even there. He was seen, but not noticed. He was just the kid
who cleaned the tables in the Mess Hall and helped dish out the food. He
became invisible to the cadets.

Like all boys they had their secrets, which like all boys they could not
keep. The Phantom became the most well informed person in the Ship. He knew
who had his first wet dream and who had the magazines guaranteed to get you
as hard as a rock and get you off. Even the Twins, normally the souls of
rectitude when it came to their private habits, so far forgot that The
Phantom was not a piece of the furniture that Todd was telling Cory all
about a place he had found deep in the woods that covered the lower part of
the spit, a place where they could be alone together, before he realized
that The Phantom was busily clearing the table.

While The Phantom heard all and knew all about Little Big Man and his
antics, he had no reason to expect trouble one afternoon toward the end of
the training season when, as he sat in the sun busily peeling vegetables
and admiring the swimming parade passing by, Little Big Man stopped and
commented that only girls, and fags, peeled veggies.

While The Phantom wanted no trouble, he was more or less forced to defend
his honour, and his masculinity. Little Big Man was with his cronies, Rob
Wemyss, Ryan Ponthiere and David Thompson, who stood in a semicircle behind
him, nervously awaiting events.

"Are you calling me a fag?" asked The Phantom coolly.

Little Big Man cocked his head and squinted at The Phantom. "You're wearing
an apron. You're doin' women's work." He shrugged. "Where I come from that
makes you a fag." He turned and grinned at his friends, playing to what he
thought was an appreciative audience.

Unfortunately for Little Big Man The Phantom was not subject to cadet
discipline. He stood up, carefully placed the knife in the bowl of
half-peeled carrots, and wiped his hands on his apron. He returned the
slur. "It takes a fag to know a fag," he began. "If I was a fag you'd know
it and be the first one in line with your pants down and your dick out. Or
maybe you like sucking. Yeah, I think maybe you really like to suck
cock. With those lips, I figure you'd suck a mean bone." He cocked his head
and squinted at Little Big Man. "I guess that's why your buds walk around
with big smiles all the time."

This was a double insult. Little Big Man's buddies were all military brats
from Uplands Air Force Base in Ottawa, and members of the same Sea Cadet
Corps. To imply that they were doing anything that was remotely gay, to
even suggest that he would suck one of his friends' cocks, was an
abomination and caused Little Big Man to almost strangle with rage.

The insult did not seem to affect the three other Cadets quite so much as
Little Big Man. They all knew that it was only a matter of time before
someone gave him back everything he dished out. It looked like that time
had come. Besides, as far as they were concerned it was no big deal. They
had called one another worse names.

Rob was the oldest of the four cadets, and the most mature. He had known
Paul Greene forever, and they lived next door to each other in the CFB
Uplands Married Patch, and because of the unwritten rule that army brats
stuck together no matter what, he felt he owed Paul his loyalty. Rob looked
at Little Big Man. He looked at The Phantom. It would not be an equal
contest. The Phantom had at least ten pounds on Little Big Man, and a
longer reach.

Rob sighed. Paul could be such a pain in the ass sometimes. He attempted to
calm the situation but Little Big Man, too far gone in his anger, told him
to shut up. "This queer won't fight," he snarled. "He's just a
queer. Everybody knows queers can't fight."

Rob gave up. David and Ryan, who only tolerated Little Big Man because of
their friendship with Rob, stepped back. Little Big Man had started it. Let
him finish it. As far as they were concerned Paul was on his own. The
Phantom smiled tightly. He might be a queer, but he was a queer who could,
and would, fight. "Try it on, faggot," he taunted grimly.

Insane with anger at this ultimate insult, Little Big Man charged, fists
raised, at a boy who was not only bigger, and stronger, but also meaner.

The Phantom rang Little Big Man for six. When the dust settled, the fight
broken up by Chef, Little Big Man had a split lip and the beginning of a
monster black eye. The Phantom's ribs were bruised, and he had a huge welt
on his temple where Little Big Man had landed a lucky punch.

Chef, hurriedly called by one of the cooks, and wise in the ways of
teenaged boys, knew a grudge match when he saw it. He separated the two
boys, who had been rolling about in a cloud of dust, and sent the cadets
packing with a threat to report them all for fighting. He dragged The
Phantom by the ear back into the galley, pushed him into a chair and with
much finger wagging, and not a little cursing, gave him a stern lecture on
the evils of fist-fighting, and threatened to fire his ass if he ever found
him fighting again. Then he gave The Phantom a beer.

In the end it was his own body and deeply feared and buried feelings that
betrayed Little Big Man. On the morning of his last day at AURORA Little
Big Man, having stood the Middle Watch, had a Guard and Steerage, which
meant that he could sleep a half hour longer that his messmates.

At 0600 the bugle sounded Wakey-Wakey. All the cadets, except for Little
Big Man, grumbling and grousing all the while, cleaned into sports gear and
shuffled out to the parade square where, under the direction of the Cadet
Physical Training Instructors, they would endure 20 minutes of physical
training.

Little Big Man luxuriated in bed, burying himself in the warmth and comfort
of his covers. Any extra sleep time was treasured. He heard his messmates
return just before 0630. They quickly changed into the rig of the day and
hurried off to breakfast. When the mess was quiet again he sat up,
stretched, rubbed his morning woody, and got up.

After using the heads he headed for the showers, another luxury. Cadets
were supposed to shower at 2130, just after First Post had sounded. He
stepped under a showerhead and turned on the water. As the first sprays
pulsed against his body he moaned in pleasure. He soaped himself and his
hand drifted downward toward his soft penis. He fingered his balls and his
dick stiffened.

Using soap as a lubricant he fisted himself and began pumping
quickly. Jerking off in the shower was another pleasure he had had to
forego since coming to AURORA. Within minutes his dick jerked in his hand
and a small wad of cum flew upward and landed on his hairless
stomach. Three more pumps and he was finished. His dick shrank to its
normal size and he quickly washed away the evidence.

He had been so engrossed in pleasuring himself that he had not heard the
clumping and clatter of the Venture Training Cadets returning from their
weeklong ordeal in the forest around Mount Washington. They quickly shed
their combats, grabbed their towels, and headed for the showers.

The first in was Harry von Hohenberg, who stood next to Little Big Man and
turned on the water. Little Big Man could not understand why, but he found
himself giving Harry a quick appraisal.

Harry had turned 17 years old that year and was a paragon of teenage male
beauty. He stood six feet tall, with the smoothly sculptured body of one of
Michelangelo's less robust young nudes. In the centre of each of his
well-defined pecs were tiny nipples centred in pale brown aureoles. His
hairless chest tapered flawlessly to his barely perceptible waist, which in
turn formed a melon-like ass, curving downward to form superbly
proportioned legs, which were dusted with straight black hair that stopped
just under the curving arcs that formed his firm butt. Except for a large
square of pinkish-white skin that extended from his waist to mid-thigh,
Harry was deliciously tanned, which set off his perfect white teeth and
complimented his boyish, curly black hair. His treasure trail of thick,
curly, black hairs began at his indented navel, travelling downward and
widening to encircle his perfectly proportioned genitals, four inches of
soft brown flesh ending in a silken helmet. His large testicles were
enclosed in a loose hanging hairless sac that hung just above the
rose-brown perfectly circumcised, gently curving helmet-like head of his
penis. Harry was gorgeous.

Little Big Man could not understand the feelings he felt. His small balls
contracted, and he felt a tingling in the rosy knob at the end of his
shaft. He looked down and saw that his normal one and a half inches had
thickened and risen to four steel hard inches of pulsing flesh. His penis
was crimson above his light brown circumcision ring. His mushroom head was
weeping precum. He fought down a not understood urge to reach out and touch
Harry's perfect ass. He began to back away. He could not believe the way he
felt.

Paul's movement caused Harry to turn. He could not fail to notice Little
Big Man's tumescence. A slight smile creased his handsome, brown-eyed face.
Harry was fully aware of the affect he had on some of the boys. More than
half of the Sea Puppies had a crush on him. He was 17 and vain enough to
appreciate and relish the looks of adulation that came his way, and
accepted that guys were going to bone up when confronted with his male
beauty.

Little Big Man, horrified that he had gotten a hard while looking at Harry,
managed to retrieve his towel and hurriedly left the shower room. He sat on
the edge of his bed, thoroughly frightened. "I am not a fag. I am not a
queer. I am NOT a fag," he thought angrily. He punctuated his thoughts by
slamming his fist into the mattress. He did not hear one boy comment. "For
a guy who talks so big he sure is little." Someone snorted in derision.

"Yeah," another voice piped. "A little big man."

******

 As Little Big Man moved silently down the serving line the speaker above
the door blared loudly and the bugled notes of Defaulters, followed by two
Gs echoed through the cavernous hall. The Cadet Master at Arms and Alfie
Langsford, the short, handsome black Regulating Petty Officer from Halifax,
stood up and headed for the door. The Twins, who were in the rattle,
followed them. The Executive Officer was waiting for them, standing stonily
behind his dais on the Quarterdeck, waiting to hear their stammered excuses
for their latest infraction.

With the departure of the Jaunty and Alfie, and the Twins, the dining hall
was empty except for Little Big Man who was sitting in solitary splendour
at the table closest to the door.

Ignoring Little Big Man, The Phantom began to clear up. Although he was off
at 1900 he had to prepare and deliver the hot chocolate drink for Kye
Muster at 2000, which was a holdover from the old days when the Navy League
ran things. For some reason the League considered the cadets little boys,
who needed hot chocolate and cookies before going to bed. Most of the older
cadets avoided the muster. The younger boys seemed to like it,
however. Perhaps it helped them to feel a little less homesick.

By quitting time the galley was squared away and the Kye made. The Phantom
left the galley and went into the cooks' locker room where he changed into
a T-shirt and shorts. Before leaving he did a quick walk about to make sure
that all the stoves were off and the Mess Hall empty. Then he went outside,
unlocked his bicycle and headed for home.

As he rounded the curve leading to the road that would take him into town
The Gunner's beat up Land Rover passed him. The Gunner honked and waved
through the open window. The Phantom returned the wave, and pedalled on
through the slight cloud of dust raised by the passing vehicle. He wanted
to get home and catch some zees.

The Gunner passed The Phantom and steered his car around a pothole. He kept
his speed down, not so much in consideration of raising a dust cloud, but
for fear of hitting one of the many varieties of wildlife that abounded in
the forest. Only last week a truck carrying supplies from CFB Comox, the
Ship's support base, to the Sea Cadet establishment, had hit a deer. There
had been hell to pay from the local environmentalists. The Gunner had
enough problems in life and did not need those kooks after him.

He drove onward, toward the town of Comox. To his left, across the wide
expanse of the bay the cadets used for swimming, the white buildings of
HMCS AURORA seemed to glow as the rays of the setting sun touched them. The
place radiated serenity. Which was not surprising. Most of the cadets would
be in evening classes. The place would be relatively quiet until 2000 when
"Secure" would sound and the cadets muster for Kye.

The Gunner avoided the cut-off into town and continued west until he
arrived at a small U-shaped structure. Forest Glen Garden Apartments. The
complex was a bit institutional, but the rents were reasonable and for the
next two months this was home.

The Gunner could have stayed in barracks at CFB Comox, which was only five
miles out of town. Staying there would have cost him nothing. There was a
good Junior Ranks Mess and being an Air Force facility the food would be
above standard. It always was on an Air Force base. He could have stayed on
base, but he did not. The reason he did not was waiting for him in the
small unit he had rented.

He opened the door of the unit and saw Joel, who was lounging on the sofa
with one leg draped over the arm, watching a ball game on the TV.

The Gunner walked over, leaned down, and kissed his lover lightly. "You
look comfortable."

"I am," replied Joel. "There's not much of a breeze and I like to keep
cool." He stood up and embraced the Gunner.

Joel was five feet, eight inches tall and with just the right amount of
muscles to save him from effeminacy. He had a radiant smile and the
combined genes of an English grandfather and a Chinese grandmother had made
him a stunningly handsome man who looked ten years younger than his 28
years. He had a smooth oval face set with almond shaped, black eyes. His
straight black hair was parted in the middle and hung lightly over his
broad forehead. His light golden skin glowed and his eyes sparkled as The
Gunner stood back and admired the youthful body of his friend and
lover. Since Joel was only wearing snow-white briefs, there was a lot to
admire. "God, I've missed you," The Gunner growled as he began to massage
Joel's golden-skinned arms. He slid his hands downward and began to stroke
Joel's hips.

"And I've missed you," replied Joel. He reached up and slowly began to undo
the buttons on The Gunner's shirt. When the shirt was unbuttoned he slowly
pulled it out of The Gunner's green uniform trousers and slipped his hand
down the front where his fingers found The Gunner's warm, hot
erection. Joel grinned and leaned forward, his soft lips meeting The
Gunner's. Their kiss was deep and passionate.  The Gunner pulled away and
he moved his head downward, licking and sucking on the hardened nubs of
Joel's nipples, which were embedded in dark brown aureoles. At the same
time his one hand stroked and kneaded Joel's firm butt, while the other
gently stroked his rising dick through the tight fabric of his briefs. The
Gunner moved his head and slowly lowered his body, licking and stroking
Joel's hairless chest, tasting the wonderful, unique flavour of his lover.

Joel began to moan softly as The Gunner sank to his knees and began to
nibble and suck on the soft cotton fabric hiding Joel's wonderful,
pulsating erection, lapping at the engorged helmet, then at his tightening
balls. Joel writhed as he felt the warmth of The Gunner's tongue and lips
assaulting the smooth fabric, felt the pleasure building deep inside him,
spreading from his balls to his dick, seeping slowly throughout his body.

The Gunner slipped his hands beneath the waistband of Joel's briefs and
began to slowly pull the tight-fitting underpants down, revealing first
Joel's rosy-gold knob, then his flawless, shaft, a darker gold beneath his
light tan circumcision ring. The vein running along the underside of Joel's
penis was distended and dark with blood. He began to pump his hips ever so
slightly, purring contentedly as The Gunner continued his act of worship,
slowly lapping at his sweet, hairless balls, then at the silky smooth skin
of his inner thighs.

Joel gasped as The Gunner took him in his mouth, slowly, slowly, sucking
and stroking with his tongue as he swallowed Joel's manhood, until Joel
could feel his hot breath on his tuft of pubic hair.  He bucked slightly
and his body spasmed as The Gunner's head bobbed on his six inches of
thick, hard dick. He felt The Gunner's tongue as it wiped the precum oozing
from his raging organ, smoothing it over his smooth mushroomed head. A
feeling that surpassed ecstasy began to overwhelm him, becoming almost
unbearable as The Gunner's finger found, circled, and then probed his
brown, puckered hole. As The Gunner's finger slowly entered him Joel moaned
softly. When the probing finger lightly brushed the small mound of his
sensitive prostate he groaned and shuddered.

The Gunner's finger moved back, then forward and across the sensitive
gland. Joel arched his body and threw his head back, thrusting his hips
forward as finger and mouth brought him closer and closer to nirvana. He
felt The Gunner's finger fucking him in sync with the movement of his
mouth, his other hand cupping and fondling his tight, inflamed balls.

Joel's body began trembling uncontrollably as The Gunner's tongue found the
delicate, sweet residue of skin where the shaft joined the underside of his
silken, shapely helmet. Deep within him he felt the cum building. "Oh
. . . Jee . . . SUS . . . H . . . CHRIST" he moaned, barely able to breathe
as a lava flow of cum erupted from his turgid, blood engorged helmet.

As each jet of his thick semen was expelled into The Gunner's willing and
swallowing mouth Joel thrust his hips and his stomach muscles seemed to
contract, forcing his body to drape over The Gunner's broad back, each hip
thrust shorter and shorter as his flow diminished. Joel buried his face in
the fabric of The Gunner's shirt, smelling the odour of starch and male,
moaning and sucking, his shrinking dick twitching in delight as The Gunner
continued to work his mouth and tongue, laving his sensitive head with
saliva and his own creamy, thick cum. A tidal wave of pain and pleasure
washed over him as the nerve endings that seemed to form his entire glans
continued to explode.

"Please . . . no . . . don't . . ." Joel begged as he pulled his hips back,
trying to extricate his dick from The Gunner's avidly sucking mouth. He
wanted every drop of Joel and knew what he was doing. "Please . . . Stevie
. . ." he begged again, "Don't . . . you must . . . please . . . I can't
stand it!" He pulled back a little more forcefully and his now thoroughly
sated dick popped out of his lover's mouth. He fell backward, sprawling on
the sofa; legs spread, his briefs dangling from one ankle, and lay there,
panting and groaning as the tide of pleasure that had engulfed him slowly
ebbed from his body.

The Gunner knelt beside the sofa and laid his head on Joel's taut stomach,
his hand massaging Joel's smooth, silken thigh, taking great care to avoid
touching his still pulsing cock.

"Jesus-HP-Christ-circumcised-and-crucified!" Joel moaned his favourite
curse. "Jesus. Jesus HP . . ." He lay back, his arm over his eyes as he
fought to bring his breathing under control. His heart, which had all but
stopped when he blew his load, was slowly returning to a more or less
normal rhythm.

The Gunner raised his head and rubbed his cheek along Joel's leg. His
daylong growth of beard felt rough but tickled just the same.

"That," Joel declared, "was worth waiting three months for. I have never,
and I mean never, cum like that." His hand caressed the stubble at the back
of The Gunner's head, then reached down and felt The Gunner's still hard
dick behind the precum soaked trousers. "And now I think it's my turn." He
kicked aside his briefs and sat up.

The Gunner stood and watched with a bemused smile as Joel unbuckled his
leather belt and then his thin green trousers. With a slight tug Joel
pulled down The Gunner's pants, revealing his white, precum spotted
boxers. His beautiful, wonderfully proportioned pink and tan coloured
erection was poking stiffly upward from the fly of the boxers, leaking a
steady stream of clear, sticky natural lubricant.

Joel reached over and thumbed The Gunners hardon, then reached down and
felt his large, low hanging balls. He leaned forward and licked the head of
The Gunner's dick clean, only to have another blob of precum ooze out of
the piss hole. His dick was just as shade longer than Joel's, but much
thicker, with a pale, light brown ring about three inches below the crisp,
curving glans.

Joel took The Gunner in his mouth and began a long, slow suck. The Gunner
allowed it for a few moments. "Not yet," he said quietly. "I want to make
it last." He gently pushed Joel's head aside. "Besides, I need a shower. I
stink of sweat, and cum, and cordite. And so do you."

Joel glared at him. "I do not!" he said emphatically. He was a very
fastidious young man and showered religiously. He took great satisfaction
in the fact that his glandular makeup was such that he never, ever,
perspired.

"Do too," replied The Gunner stepping back. "You smell of sex and
maleness."  Joel gave him a quick kiss. "I love you when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend that I'm a female when your fucking me, don't call me babe
or slut. I hate it when guys do that, especially when they're cumming."

The Gunner put his arms around Joel and hugged him tight. Joel felt The
Gunner's rigid cock poking his stomach and his own flaccid penis hardening.

"If I was fucking a female I might," said the Gunner, drawing Joel's cheek
close to his. "But, since I only fuck men, I treat them like men."

Drawing back a bit Joel smiled warmly. "Thanks. It means a lot when you
treat me like a man." He was well aware that his slim build and fine
features hinted at a femininity he did not have.

"If you weren't a man you wouldn't be here," replied The Gunner
emphatically. "If you weren't a man, I wouldn't love you. And, if you
weren't a man you wouldn't be all smelly."

"Asshole!" Joel snapped. He pulled hard on The Gunner's rigid penis.

"Ouch!" The Gunner yelped loudly and pulled away. "That hurt!"

"Good."

"I guess this means you don't want to play in the shower."

Joel slipped his arms around The Gunner's waist and pulled their bodies
close. He slowly ground his hardness against The Gunner's. "You are such an
asshole," he smiled. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"