Date: Mon, 19 May 2003 18:06:02 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Phantom of Aurora: Chapter 7

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 you thumping 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, the bankrupt and increasingly
irrelevant United Nations, 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 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 7


As the strident bugle sounded Reveille Dylan awoke and blinked the sleep
from his eyes. His morning woody, held flush against his stomach by his
tighty-whiteys, pulsed rhythmically. His bladder was full and he needed to
take a leak. Sitting up, Dylan did what he did almost every morning: he
lifted the thin coverlet and checked the front of his jockey shorts. Except
for a small wet spot just at the top of his morning bulge, they were
clean. No shot stains. He could not remember dreaming anything erotic and
he knew that he had not humped his mattress. With a satisfied shrug Dylan
reached into his briefs and gave his woody a squeeze. He hadn't soiled his
drawers so they would be good for another day. He hated doing laundry and
didn't really feel like doing a dhobey anyway, even though most of his
personal gear was piled at the bottom of his locker, mouldering
away. Besides, with the machines in almost constant use since the new
uniforms had been issued, he'd be there for hours and a guy had better
things to do with his time than stand around watching his laundry!

Dylan threw aside the blue-checked coverlet and pushed his legs over the
side of the bed. He sat up and stretched, groaning as he ran his hand over
his damp, clammy chest. British Columbia might be beautiful but in a heat
wave, Jesus, was it hot. He was covered in sweat. There was no breeze this
morning and the barracks was like an oven.

Around him the Mess began to stir as the other cadets crawled out of their
fartsacks, mumbling and grumbling, scratching their balls, fingering their
morning hardons, the usual morning routine. Dylan stood up and went to the
heads where he had a wonderful piss. As he pulled up the front of his
briefs he looked around and saw that about half of the other cadets were
wearing boxers, which were, according to Brian, the latest "in" thing with
guys, and debated buying some the next time he was in town. Brian, who was
his best friend, had switched over and according to Brian he no longer had
to worry about sweating his bag off and chaffing the shit out of his
groin. Personally Dylan liked the compact feelings of comfort and security
his briefs gave him.

Dylan returned to his bunk space and ransacked his locker for a clean pair
of socks. He tried to ignore the untidy pile of dirty socks, briefs and
work gear. He really had to do a dhobey soon, noting that he was down to
his last pair of clean socks, and only one pair of clean
underpants. Closing his locker Dylan looked over and saw Brian getting out
of bed. His smile froze when he realized that Brian was naked, his soft,
3-inch penis was glowing and his helmet, a deeper pink than his shaft, hung
lazily over his loose, smooth skinned balls.

Dylan and Brian had been best friends forever. They went to the same
schools, played on the same hockey and baseball teams, had joined the
Cadets together and had few, if any, secrets. Dylan had seen Brian nude
many times, and he had seen Brian's dick soft, as it was now, hard and
raging, as it usually was every morning and once, two years before, he had
seen it retreating from orgasm, when they had talked themselves into a
mutual jack-off session.

Shaking his head, Dylan tried not to look at Brian's flushed organ. He knew
that Brian enjoyed a little one-on-one with a guy, if the right guy
offered. Dylan shuddered at that thought. He had never done anything with
his friend, and had no intention of doing anything with Brian. The thought
of sucking another guy's dick repulsed him, although it never bothered
Brian in the least. Last year Brian had taken up with Ben Hoskens, a beefy
Newfoundlander with a dick that was all wrinkled and covered with
skin. This year, or so Brian had whispered, somebody had given him the best
blowjob of his life. Brian had been hazy on the details but Dylan got the
message, just as he got the message this morning. The look on Brian's face,
and the deeper pinkness of his dick told Dylan that Brian had enjoyed a
little one on one with a guy sometime during the night.

Dylan watched as Brian reached into his locker and pulled out a clean pair
of boxers. He pulled them on and then lay down on his bunk again, reaching
under the band of his shorts and fingering himself. A huge grin began to
crease his ruddy face. Dylan walked slowly to Brian's bunk and stood beside
it, looking down at his obviously satisfied friend. "It happened," he
accused. "Again!"

Brian closed his eyes, wiggled his nose, and nodded slowly, his grin
growing bigger. "Twice," he breathed. "The second time better than the
first." He sighed at the happy memory.

Dylan sat down on Brian's bunk, his briefs-covered bum brushing against
Brian's hairy leg. "Twice?" he whispered in disbelief. "You let some guy
beat . . ."

Brian shook his head. He opened his eyes and stared directly into Dylan's
pale blue eyes. "He blew me. Twice," he giggled. "He blew me like I have
never been blown before." He closed his eyes and sighed again. "It was
good," he said simply. "He said he would take me across the river and
fucking hell, Dylan, he did!"

Dylan looked quickly around the mess. None of the other cadets were paying
any attention to them. "You mean to tell me that you . . .let some guy
. . ." he sputtered. "Jesus, Brian, how could you?"

"Because I wanted to, Dylan," replied Brian truthfully. "Because I liked
the way it felt. Satisfied?"

"It's wrong," Dylan blurted out. "It's wrong and it's a sin and . . ."

Brian sat up abruptly and his hand gripped Dylan's arm. "Stay away from it,
Dylan," he warned, his voice hard. "You had your chance and you said no. I
had the chance and I took it." He released Dylan and glared at him. "Don't
ever tell me what to do. And don't preach that bullshit to me. Remember,
you're the one who told me that old Father Graball spent most of his time
trying to get his hand up your soutane! Don't come all holy on me." He lay
back and started feeling the warm head of his penis again. "Come on, Dylan
. . ." he began, rubbing his calf against Dylan's bum.

Dylan stood up quickly, suddenly aware that he had felt something when
Brian's leg touched him, something he did not want to feel. "Don't do that!
I don't like it!" he snapped. Then he looked and saw where Brian's hand
was. "You're disgusting, you know that?" he snarled, his upper lip curling.

Brian never took his hand from his boxers. With his free hand pointed his
forefinger at Dylan. "If I'm so disgusting why do you hang around with me?"
he asked, a hint of danger in his voice.

Dylan backed off. Brian had a reputation as a street fighter and Dylan knew
that all his years of friendship would not save his ass if Brian got mad
enough.

"If it bothers you so much, why don't you just fuck off somewhere?"
continued Brian. He rolled out of bed and began to dress for PT. His boxers
were tented, but he could have cared less. He glared at his friend. "Go
away, Dylan. Just fuck off!" he snarled. He pulled on his T-shirt and with
his shoes in his hand stormed from the barracks brushing past a tall, slim,
quite handsome cadet with sun-bleached hair and clear, sparkling blue eyes,
who had been standing near the open window. As Brian stormed off the cadet
smiled and started walking toward the Staff Barracks.

******

Cory strolled casually into the Gunroom and sat on Todd's bed. Todd was
awake but since he had a Guard and Steerage he had decided to stay in bed
and luxuriate in the rare treat. "You're up early," he said to Cory. "I
would have thought that after last night you . . . " He raised his head and
waggled his eyebrows as he jerked his head rapidly in the general direction
of Chris's empty bunk. " . . . that you would still be still sawing logs."
He slid his hand up the leg of his brother's gym shorts. "So?"

"Let us just say that Chris was very, um, exuberant." Cory grinned wickedly
and slipped his hand under the coverlet of Todd's bed and found his
brother's morning chummy." So exuberant that we did it twice!"

Todd chuckled and rubbed the diamond drop of precum that had oozed from
Cory's warm, spongy glans. "You're happy, then?"

Cory nodded. "For a virgin Chris knew where to find all the right buttons."
He giggled and squeezed Todd's erection. "Of course, he had instructions
from the master!"

At that moment Chris, naked and fresh from his shower, drifted by and
smiled at the Twins. Cory noticed that he didn't have his usual morning
woody. He also noticed that Chris's dick seemed awfully red. As Chris
walked by Todd's bunk he blushed and Todd pulled the cover over his head.

Cory began snickering. "You little devil you," he giggled. "You didn't!"
Todd peeked out from under the covers. "What can I say? Just thinking about
you and Chris together made my dick all tingly and my balls were hanging
down to my knees. You went to bed as soon as we got off Watch . . ." A
puzzled looked came over his face. "Say, you didn't shower this
morning. Really, Cory you should have . . ."

"I did! There are perfectly adequate facilities in the galley heads." He
gave Todd's testicles a squeeze. "Now, about you and Chris?"

Todd looked over at Chris, who was putting on his gym gear, darting glances
at Cory and, no doubt, wondering what they were whispering about. He
snickered. "I went into the showers, thinking that I would take matters in
hand, so to speak . . ." Cory groaned at the pun. Todd ignored him and
carried on. " . . . Then Chris came in. One thing led to another and well,
we helped each other out."

"As if either of you needed it," returned Cory with a self-righteous
sniff. "So, did you?"

Todd shook his head. "We just sixty-nined." He leaned forward. "Chris is
getting awfully good at it. He has the gift."

Cory nodded. "Don't I know it! He will make some man very happy!

Before Todd could reply Chris came over and sat on Cory's bed. He looked
quite happy and pleased with himself and had the silliest grin on his face
that the Twins had ever seen. They pulled their hands from each other's
crotches and Cory was about to tease the pair of them when Val walked into
the Gunroom.

Val was bright eyed, shaved, and his hair was combed. He was wearing dark
blue gym shorts and a white tee with the red and gold ship's crest over the
left breast. He smiled at the trio of boys. "Morning, boychicks," he said
happily. "Time to play silly buggers."

The Twins looked at each other and at Chris. Boychicks? Play silly buggers?
Jesus, Val was positively bubbly!

"Uh . . .we have a Guard and Steerage, Guns," said Todd hesitatingly. Val
was not a morning person. This sea change in him was very puzzling.

Val thought a moment. "Oh, yeah, you two had the Mids." He glanced at
Chris, who for some reason was blushing. "Come on, Chris, time to get
moving." He waved a "come on" motion. Chris stood up and looked at the
Twins. They shrugged and gave him a small wave.  "See you guys later,"
Chris said, giving Val a dubious look. He was just as puzzled as the Twins
but wasn't going to pursue the matter of Val's buoyant mood.

As Chris moved past him, Val reached out and smacked Chris on the
fanny. "Let's go, me son. Time's awastin'."

Val followed Chris from the barracks, leaving in his wake two totally
confused Twins. Val was a nice guy, most of the time, but he wasn't given
to early morning badinage. Shit, he wasn't given to banter at any time.

"Did I hear what I think I heard?" asked Todd.

"Boychick? Me son?" repeated Cory.

"Jesus, he sounds like The Gunner. Maybe Operation Warm Fuzzy has affected
him," said Todd. "He sure is acting funny. He wasn't drinking last night,
was he?"

Cory recalled the conversation he had just overheard outside the Gunners
Barracks. He turned his head to conceal his knowing smile. It would seem
that Brian was not the only one who had been taken across the river last
night.

******

The Phantom lay in his bed enjoying the slight ocean breeze that blew
across his naked body. He was idly toying with his soft penis, fingering
his sculptured helmet, lazily coating it with the small dollops of sticky
precum that oozed slowly from his slit. He had read somewhere that a boy
was at his sexual peak at 17. He forgot who had written the story but he
totally agreed with whoever had been the author. He had jerked off in the
shack after leaving AURORA. Actually he had rubbed his hard cock against
the rough wool of the old blanket covering the bed, which had caused an
orgasm so wonderfully intense that he had almost lost consciousness. When
he got home he had jerked off again in the shower, with the vision of Cory
and Chris playing out in his mind and the smell and taste of Val fresh in
his mouth.

This morning, less than an hour ago, he had awoken with a hardon and jerked
off for the fourth time and each time he ejaculated it seemed more powerful
and pleasurable than the last. His last load, a small one, which The
Phantom thought was not surprising, since he figured he pumped out a gallon
of spunk all told, he shot into the boxers he had worn the night before. He
had lain there, dipping his finger into his own cum, tasting the small
dollops, wanting to make them last as long as possible, mentally comparing
the taste of his ejaculate with the taste of the three boys he had sucked a
few short hours before.

Just as each cadet had smelled different, but the same, their dicks had
tasted different, but the same. Their cum though . . . each load had been
different, sweet, yet a touch salty, creamy, with some indefinable flavour
that made each unique. Val's cum was exquisite, thick, creamy, hinting at
the boy he was and the man he would soon become. Brian's semen was not as
thick, nor as sweet as Val's. It had a roughness to it that would forever
be Brian. Ray's, dear, sweet, shy Ray, Ray's cum was like him. Of the
three, his was the sweetest, full of the boy he was, thick milk not yet
become cream.

As for his own sperm-filled juice, it too was different. To The Phantom's
taste his own cum seemed to taste of woods and forests, hinting of the
ocean, still maturing, transiting that period from boy to man and he
reasoned that the older a boy became, and the closer he approached the
threshold of manhood, the better his semen became, thick, a sweet nectar
promising the ambrosia of a man.

Without even trying The Phantom thought himself into yet another
erection. His fingers traced a long, slow pattern up his swollen shaft,
caressing his tender spot where the shaft joined his smooth, round,
tapering helmet. He began fisting his boner, approaching orgasm, peaking as
he fantasized about how wonderful The Gunner must taste. As his dick pulsed
and pumped yet another stream into the boxers The Phantom groaned, his
fantasy filling his mouth with a flavour he could only create in his
imagination.

When he was finished The Phantom showered, taking great care not to touch
his still firm, and very sensitive, penis. As his mother was at work and
his father was snoring away in the master bedroom, The Phantom wandered
around the house in his underwear. He prepared his breakfast and as he was
eating he heard the distinctive clank of the of the morning's post being
dropped into the metal mailbox affixed to the wall beside the front
door. He went out to the wide front porch, took the mail from the box and,
sitting on the top step, leafed through the envelopes. The usual bills, and
what looked like another whining letter from Brendan.

It was a beautiful morning, very bright, with not a cloud in the sky. There
was a slight, cooling breeze coming from the harbour. It was very quiet,
which was to be expected. Most of the people who lived on the street were
either retired or worked during the day. A gaggle of boys riding bicycles
screamed past, laughing and shouting. As the herd rounded the corner of the
street one of the boys turned and rode back towards the house. He stopped
and dropped his bike against the curb with a crash, then ran up the
walk. It was Robbie.

"Gotta pee, Phantom," Robbie panted. "Can I use the pisser?" Without
waiting for an answer he rushed into the house. Five minutes later Robbie
was back, charging from the house, letting the screen door slam. He clumped
down the steps and sat down, propping his elbows on the step above where he
was sitting.

Robbie was a typical prepubescent 12-year-old boy, smooth bodied, not quite
formed, lanky and more than a little gawky. His hair was plastered to his
head in disarray, and his white T-shirt was sweat stained. He was totally
without courtesy or grace, sprawling on the bottom step, his legs spread,
idly adjusting his cocklet hidden under his thin running shorts. He was a
smooth, soft, beautiful boy who would, in the fullness of time, mature into
a stunningly handsome man.

Deep within him The Phantom felt a stirring. Part of him wanted to take the
boy in his arms and cuddle and fondle him. Another part told him that this
was not possible.

Robbie did not help matters. Without shame he was fondling himself into an
erection, his shorts tenting as his cocklet swelled and lengthened. He
blatantly reached inside the shorts and adjusted his thin boner so that it
lay straight up, pointing towards his navel. He then turned, looked at The
Phantom, and grinned. "Nice dick, Phantom," he giggled. "And your balls
ain't bad, either."

The Phantom looked down and realized that he had been sitting with his legs
apart. His boxers had ridden up and while basically covered, his genitals
were on full view to anyone who looked up his shorts. He quickly closed his
legs. "Nice boys don't go around looking up the legs of other guys shorts,"
The Phantom huffed.

Robbie yawned and stretched. "Never said I was a nice boy. Can I suck it?"

"Robbie!" The Phantom sat open mouthed with shock.

"Well, can I? And close your mouth. It's fly season," Robbie finished
helpfully.

The Phantom's mouth snapped shut with a loud click. "No . . . you . . .may
. . .not." he said tightly.

"Too bad," replied Robbie with a shrug. "I give a good blow job." He stood
up and adjusted his hardon. "Anyway, Jeff's dick is bigger. Balls too!" He
stuck out his tongue and mounted his bike. "Don't look so shocked,
Phantom. Nothin' sweeter than a nice piece of teenage dick in the morning."
He grinned evilly. "But you wouldn't know about that, would you." As he
peddled away Robbie yelled over his shoulder, "Maybe next time, tight ass!"

The Phantom did not know if he should laugh or throw something at the
little bastard. He shook his head as Robbie disappeared around the
corner. He was a kid, good looking, and he smelled very nice. But if Robbie
was looking for sex from him The Phantom knew he simply could not do
it. Robbie was a little boy! In a few years, when Robbie got older, maybe,
but now, never!

He abruptly dismissed such thoughts from his mind. As The Phantom climbed
the stairs to his room he realized that while Robbie was much more blatant
about it, he was only feeling what he, The Phantom, was feeling about The
Gunner and that just as Robbie had stirred mixed emotions in him, and had
made him feel things that he should not feel, he was doing the same thing
to The Gunner.

"I guess now I know now how he feels," he thought. "And I don't like it at
all."

******

Ray awoke at the light touch of a hand on his bare foot, which was sticking
out from the end of the coverlet. He raised his head and saw David, the
Duty Hand grinning goofily. "Time to get up, Ray," whispered David.

Ray grumbled and snorted, clearing the night's detritus from his
throat. "I'm up," he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his hand across his
chest.  "Thanks."

David nodded and went down the barracks where he shook Sandro, taking care
not touch him below the waist or above the knees. Sandro jerked and swung
his arm. David, who had been this way before, ducked and pulled Sandro's
foot. Sandro muttered something in Russian. David doubted it was a
compliment and left the barracks.

Ray lay quietly and watched as Sandro crawled out of his top bunk, then
stumbled in a half daze towards the showers. He couldn't help but notice
that Sandro's briefs were bulging out in front. He chuckled and reached
down under the coverlet to feel his naked crotch. His sleeping penis was
still tender from all the attention it had received only hours ago.  He
hefted his oval balls and squeezed gently. They still ached a
little. "Whoever the guy is," Ray thought, "he sure knows how to make me
feel good." He smiled at the memory of the warm lips on his. Ray could hear
the water pounding in the showers so he pulled himself out of his bunk and,
draping his towel around his shoulders, went into the showers.

Sandro was standing under the pulsing torrent of hot water busily
scrubbing. It was very apparent that he held more than a bar of soap in his
hand. He had pulled back the foreskin on his long, thick, semi-hard dick,
and was lovingly passing the washcloth over the huge, flat, barely defined
purplish-brown knob. Ray crept up behind Sandro and murmured in his
ear. "If the Rabbi sees you doing that you'll be excommunicated." Then he
grabbed both of Sandro's butt cheeks.

Sandro yelped and began cursing in Russian. In moments of stress he always
reverted to his mother tongue.

"English! You Russian git," demanded Ray, laughing like a loon.

"Fuck your mother!" snarled Sandro. Then he called Ray a very dirty name,
in Russian. He threw his wash- cloth at Ray. "You . . . give me heart
attached!"

Ray threw the washcloth back, hitting Sandro square in the face. "Heart
attack, you Russian peasant." He looked down at Sandro's soft organ.

Sandro saw the look and reached down. He waggled his dick at Ray. "Have
good look. In September, he looks better."

Ray could not help himself. He reached out and gave Sandro a bear
hug. Sandro squealed and wriggled out of Ray's grasp. Their soft dicks and
warm balls had rubbed together and Ray felt a spark flash through the head
of his dick. Sandro obviously had not. "You crazy man!" he grumbled, trying
hard to sound angry. Ray was his friend and he did not want his friend to
know that sometimes he felt . . . "You crazy!" he repeated.

Ray put his hands on Sandro's broad shoulders and grinned. "Sandro, dear,
Sandro. God is in his heaven. The birds are singing. The sun is
shining. Today is my birthday and I feel great." He leaned forward and
tried to kiss Sandro's cheek.

"No kissing, crazy fool," howled Sandro, pushing Ray away. But he was
laughing.

Ray stood under the showerhead and let the hot water wash over him. Sandro
stood beside him and they soaped up. "Is it really your birthday, Ray?" he
asked over the roar of the water.

Ray grinned and nodded. "God's truth. Today. I am 17 today! I can go home
and tell the Sea Cadets to kiss my Royal Canadian ass and join the Navy."

"The Navy?" Sandro grimaced. "Now I know for sure that you are crazy."

They turned off the water and began towelling themselves dry. "Well, the
Reserves, at first," explained Ray. "Then the Permanent Force when I
graduate high school."

"This is what you want to do?"

"This is what I want to do," replied Ray with a happy smile.

As they left the showers Sandro put his arm around Ray's shoulder and
squeezed. "I tell Chef today is your birthday. We have little party, maybe
a big cake." He wagged his finger at Ray. "But no kissing."

******

When they arrived in the galley Ray and Sandro found Chef busily mixing up
the pancake batter. Pancakes were always on the menu, as was oatmeal. In
deference to Sandro's religious scruples he was assigned to mixing the
oatmeal while Ray loaded 50-pound boxes of bacon into trays and put them in
the oven.

At 0630 the first of the cadets strolled in looking for breakfast. Most of
the food was self-serve, except for the eggs, which were cooked to
order. Ray and Sandro were experts at preparing eggs.

Chef preferred the pancake griddle. He was a great believer in the theory
that you could judge how a day would go by the mood the troops were in at
breakfast. He knew that his galley staff was happy. Ray was merrily humming
Wavy Navy as he dished up the fresh cooked eggs. Sandro had picked up on
the tune and the pair of them were harmonizing the music. Chef hadn't heard
the tune in years, not since they had retired the King's Colour and laid it
up in The Cathedral Church of All Saints in Halifax. Despite himself Chef
hummed along as well.

The Cadet Chief Gunner shepherded the New Entry cadets through. Not only
was he not his usual dour self, he was smiling and laughing with the young
cadets, being almost paternal. The Master at Arms who was shaking his head
trailed Val.

"What bit him?" asked Chef after Val and the New Entries passed down the
line.

"I wish I knew," replied Tyler, helping himself to a double portion of
pancakes. "I just hope it's catching. We could use some good moods around
here." He smiled thinly and moved on.

The Twins, along with Harry, entered. Harry was grumpy, and chucking shit
at the Twins, who were their usual happy selves. They greeted Chef with
smiles and moved on to get some eggs. When Sandro told them that it was
Ray's birthday they sedately and formally shook his hand and wished him a
very happy birthday, though the moment was somewhat ruined by Cory who just
had to rub his forefinger along Ray's palm as they shook hands. Ray
blushed, knowing exactly what the gesture meant. He also knew that he would
have loved to return it.

The palm rubbing was not lost on Todd. As they moved down the food line and
away from Ray he smacked his brother's hard ass. "Don't you think of
anything else?"

"No," answered Cory truthfully.

"You are supposed to be straight, remember?" Todd reminded his brother.

"Only from dawn 'til dusk." grinned Cory. He reached back and copped a
feel.

"Correee . . ." wailed Todd.

Ray chuckled at the Twins' antics and served the next cadet in line, the
Guard Petty Officer. Brian grinned broadly and wished Ray a happy
birthday. There was a rough edged quality about Brian that Ray found
intriguing.  He slipped an extra egg on Brian's plate. As Brian filled a
bowl with red lead and bacon Ray noticed that his sidekick, Dylan, was
nowhere in sight. Trouble in paradise?

As more and more cadets came in for breakfast Ray and Sandro hustled and
served portion after portion of eggs. Eventually the line of cadets
diminished and there were long gaps as the stragglers wandered in. The
three new gunners came in as a group. One, a tall, slim cadet with a
handsome, square-jawed face, smiled at Ray as he thanked the young cook for
his eggs. Ray almost dropped his spatula into the pan of scrambled eggs.

One of the last cadets to enter was Dylan, who helped himself to some toast
and milk. As Ray watched he walked to the table where Brian was sitting and
sat down. Almost immediately Brian stood up, put his dirty dishes in the
tray by the dishwasher and left the Mess Hall. Definitely trouble in
paradise.

At 0745 the bugle called the cadets to Divisions. Ray and Sandro took a
short break and then started loading the dishwasher.  Through the open
doors they could hear the Band crashing and banging away.

When Divisions were over two fresh-faced young cadets reported for
duty. Chef put them to work rinsing the dirty breakfast dishes while Ray
and Sandro began the prep for lunch. Chef busied himself by mixing up a
cake batter. He had asked Ray what his favourite cake was and so Ray would
have a chocolate birthday cake.

Shortly before ten The Phantom appeared and was set to work mixing bowls of
different coloured icings. Under Chef's direction he stirred and mixed the
coloured icings to the stiffness that Chef wanted. The icing made, The
Phantom went and helped Ray prepare the soup that would be served at
lunch. As they mixed the ingredients The Phantom wished Ray a happy
birthday. "Chef is making you a cake. Chocolate. I got to prep the icing."
"Count yourself lucky," said Ray. "I had to listen to his story about how
when he was just a lad, an apprentice cook, he helped bake one of the cakes
for the Queen's wedding."

"Hell and sheeit, how old is he? That was years ago!" exclaimed The
Phantom, busily stirring the soup mixture.

Ray shrugged. "If you listen to his stories you'd think he's older than
God. Phantom, go get the macaroni."

As The Phantom walked towards the storeroom Ray looked at him
thoughtfully. A small, niggling, indefinable, something had been gnawing at
him.  Every time Phantom came near him it was if a little bell had gone off
in his brain. Now he realized what it was.  It was The Phantom's aroma, his
sweet, vaguely familiar, boy/man scent. A great crash broke Ray's train of
thought. One of the kitchen hands had dropped a huge tray of clean dishes.

As he hurried away to help clean up Ray could still smell that wonderful
scent, and thought that Phantom smelled a lot like . . . But that was
impossible. Phantom wasn't a cadet, and left AURORA every night at
2000. Besides, all guys smelled alike, didn't they?

******

At 1545, after the First Dog Watchmen had been fed, Chef presented Ray with
his richly ornamented birthday cake. The Twins, Sandro, The Phantom and the
two new kitchen Makee-Learns, Terry, a husky, brown haired boy, and Stefan,
a short, bespectacled, serious young man, all clapped politely. They did
not sing the birthday song. Ray, supported by Chef, considered it childish
and not the Cadet thing to do. There were no presents as, until this
morning, no one had known that it was Ray's birthday. There was also no
kissing. They chatted and played silly buggers, telling sick or very lame
jokes, giggling and having a very good time. They were all disappointed
when 1630 rolled around and everybody had to go back to work.

The Twins went to the Gunroom where they stripped, showered, and cleaned
into shorts and T-shirts. They would have liked to fool around in the
showers but their messmates were cluttering up the place, so they lolled on
their bunks, studying the terrain.

Harry and Two Strokes strolled around without a stitch on, arguing about
the upcoming parade. Harry was unembarrassed. Being naked around the other
cadets was second nature to him. Two Strokes, totally engrossed in his
argument, had forgotten that he was naked. His quite handsome fittings
bounced as he walked. They were a trifle on the small side, but well
made. His slender penis was smooth, without blemish, ending in a crisp,
pink, satiny looking mushroom.  Although small, his testicles were
perfectly oval, and dusted with fine black hair.

Jon, his smooth, tight basket contained in clean, white briefs, was lying
on his bunk, skimming through a skin book, scratching himself through his
briefs. Fred was sitting on his bunk with his back against the bulkhead and
his knees up, legs spread, reading a paperback western, not aware that the
neatly proportioned helmet that crowned his slender, circumcised five-inch,
flaccid penis was fully exposed.

Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, a smooth, slightly muscled, stunningly
handsome boy, with black, neatly combed hair and soft brown eyes set in a
firm, chiselled face, strolled into the mess, deliciously damp from his
shower. Except for a white "V" covering his waist and groin, he was
marvellously tanned. Hanging from his thick, brown, curly pubic hairs was
his pride and joy, which bounced lightly against his tightly hanging,
moderately sized balls. His penis, except for a narrow circle of light pink
flesh directly under his well-shaped helmet, was a light brown, and
completely smooth and flawless, four inches of thick perfection.

Cory sighed softly as Nicholas walked by, sorry now that he had not given
the Yeoman a quick feel when they had been rolling around in the dust after
the infamous ball game. Todd gave Cory a look that said don't even think
about it. Cory smiled wickedly. There would be ample opportunity to drool
over Nicholas in the weeks yet to come.

The bugle sounded Hands to Dinner. Todd stood up and asked Cory what was on
the menu. "Something called Chicken Oriental," replied Cory.

Todd grimaced. "You go ahead. I'm not all that hungry."

"Why not? You like Chinese food."

"Normally, yes," agreed Todd. Authentic Chinese cuisine was one of his
favourite dining pleasures. "But I haven't seen the ship's cat lately. I am
not taking any chances."

Cory laughed and pulled Todd to his feet. "There are other things on the
menu. You have to eat. You have to keep up your strength." He snickered a
wicked little laugh. As they left the mess Todd told Cory that he had an
evil mind. As they passed the Headquarters Building the buses from Highland
School pulled up and began discharging the cadets who attended classes
there. One of the last off the bus was Chris.

"Jesus, you look frazzled," exclaimed Todd.

Chris was dishevelled and decidedly out of sorts. "You'd be too, if you
went through the day I've just had." He moaned. "Some jerk decided to set
off the fire alarms. Do you know how many fucking fire trucks Comox has?"

The Twins admitted that they did not.

"Too fucking many," snarled Chris. "They all showed up acting like it was
the Great Chicago Fire. When they finally left all the troops took a stupid
pill. Jesus, what a day!"

"Go and have a nice, hot shower. Change into something loose and
casual. Then come and have supper with us," soothed Todd.

"What's for supper?"

"Chicken" replied Cory flatly.

Chris grinned lasciviously. "Now how did the cooks know I feel like chicken
tonight?"  The Twins grinned back.

"Come to think of it, a little chicken would be nice," said Cory with a
giggle. "Let's talk about it over supper."

Chris went off to shower and change while the Twins went to the Mess
Hall. They greeted The Phantom who warned them that the chicken was not all
that great. The Twins settled for the second entrée, spaghetti, and a
large salad.

"He has turned into a nice guy," said Todd as they sat down, referring to
the Phantom. "I'm going ask him to help me with the T-shirts."

Cory glanced over at The Phantom, who saw the glance and grinned. "You
know, I think he's a ripe specimen," ventured Cory.  "He's not that bad
looking and he's got a nice basket. What do you think?"

Todd shook his head. "As much as I like the idea, I don't think so." Seeing
the quizzical look on Cory's face he continued. "He's too straight. He's
never said or done anything that make's me think he's interested."

Cory was forced to agree with Todd's assessment of The Phantom's
sexuality. "He's has got to know that we are as bent as a dog's hind leg."
He looked thoughtful a moment. "Still, he wants to be our friend despite
everything." He shrugged his disappointment "Oh, well, it was just a
thought."

Todd nibbled at a piece of lettuce. "Well, Chris is interested. You heard
him, he feels like chicken tonight."

"So do I. But where?" Cory shook his head. "As much as I would dearly love
to spend some time with Chris, our choices of where we can go for a little
privacy are poor. The first aid team is in Boatswains Stores. The jocks
will be all over the Drill Shed and the Gunroom is out. We're running out
of places."

Todd thought a moment. Then he brightened. "I know where. How about the
Ropewalk? Nobody ever goes in there after Secure."

The Ropewalk, a long, rough-stone, slate-roofed building was the oldest
structure on the spit and had been built in 1878 by the Royal Navy, as a
place to repair and make halyards, lines and hawsers for the ships that
called frequently for repairs or refit. These natural fibre ropes had long
since been replaced by machine-woven, man-made fibre ropes and the building
was now used to store the masts, sails, and assorted paraphernalia needed
to sail the dinghies and whalers clustered in the Boat Yard. In typical
Navy fashion the name was kept, though the function had changed. It was
directly next door to the Drill Shed and could not be seen from the
Dockyard.

Cory smiled, ducked his head, and then looked at Todd. "So, we gonna have
some chicken tonight?"

Todd grinned.  "You are. I'm not, mores the pity"

"What?" Cory was very surprised. Todd had never been one to pass up an
opportunity to have sex with a hot boy.

"I promised Harry to help him out with the New Entries," explained Todd
with a sigh of regret for opening his big mouth. "Some of them are still a
little rocky."  "So I get Chris all to myself?"

"Sure, why not? I did this morning." Todd smiled.

"But I was with him during the Mids."

"Cory, it doesn't matter who was with Chris last. He's experienced boy love
in every aspect. If he wants to make love, then you're the one to do it."
He grimaced and shrugged. "You know I much prefer to be on top." He saw the
pained look on his brother's face. "I'm not a bottom man," he finished
weakly.

"Don't I know it," replied Cory, the disappointment in his voice palpable.

"Thank you, Cory. You make me feel so wanted," returned Todd.

Cory paled. "Shit, Toddy, you know what I mean. I didn't mean . . ."

Todd held up his hand. "Cory, truth is truth. I love doing it with you,
when I'm the one making love. You enjoy it. I enjoy it. Unfortunately, I
don't enjoy the over way around. Some guys do, some guys don't. I don't."

They left it there. As Todd had said, he simply did not enjoy being fucked
as much as Cory did.

Chris came in to the Mess Hall, filled a plate with food, and sat
down. Todd told him what was on offer for the evening. "Jeez, Todd, I
thought that we could be together tonight." He grinned. "All three of us."

Todd shook his head. "As much as I like the idea, I made a promise to
Harry. You and Cory spend some time together.  I get to go and check out
the New Entries."

Cory gasped. "Todd!"

"What's the matter? I can look, can't I?"

"Just don't touch." said Chris grinning.

******

After eating the boys went their separate ways. Todd returned to the
Gunroom to change. Since they had no intention of being around for Rounds,
Cory and Chris elected to stay in sports gear. They headed for the
canteen. They played a few game of darts, killing time until 2000, when
they walked toward the Ropewalk.

The building was, as they expected, dark. Evening sailing classes were over
and the cadets were busy changing for Rounds or gathering in the
canteen. Cory pushed the door open and fumbled for the light switch. Before
he could turn on the lights Chris stopped him. "We don't need lights, do
we?" he asked, turning the tumbler in the lock.  Cory embraced him and
kissed him tenderly. "Don't need them at all." he whispered. He reached
under Chris's white T-shirt and began to pull it over his head.

They slowly undressed each other, lovingly removing shorts and T-shirts,
caressing and stroking each other's smooth, soft bodies. Naked, they
embraced, grinding their hips, their erect penises pulsing as they rubbed
together, their rough pubic patches deliciously abrasive as their smooth,
hard, erections passed over them.

Cory slowly licked his way down Chris's body, dropping to his knees and
taking Chris's throbbing six inches into his mouth. His tongue washed over
Chris's engorged helmet, laving it with his saliva and the precum flowing
from the gaping slit.  He felt Chris's smooth, perfect balls, fondling and
cupping them gently.

Chris groaned as the electricity passed through him. He pulled away and
dropped to his knees. He felt Cory's hard nipples and pressed his lips
against Cory's mouth. As their tongues entangled he reached down and ran
his warm hand along Cory's smooth, low-hanging sac.

They slowly lowered themselves to the untidy pile of orange lifejackets
just inside the door, stretched their legs and stroked and fondled the
smoothness of their bodies. Cory rolled on his back, spread his legs, and
brought his knees up, his brown puckered entrance gaping slightly, inviting
entrance. Chris positioned himself and lowered his head, his lips brushing
against the quivering flesh. His tongue darted out and he began to
slavishly rim Cory's tight, puckered rosebud, sucking and licking, tasting
him, smelling the sweet muskiness of his groin.

Chris's dick was iron hard, the tight skin above his light brown
circumcision ring and his crisp, finely formed helmet, glowing redly. He
reached down and spread the thick, clear, precum over his twitching organ.

Cory groaned in ecstasy, his body stiffening with each pass of Chris's
tongue. He felt a huge jolt of electricity as Chris's warm, moist, hard
tongue probed him, and set the membranes lining his chute afire. Chris
began to suck slowly on the flesh surrounding Cory's entrance, his tongue
slowly moving in and out. Cory's body spasmed with each thrust of Chris's
tongue, rising up and back, as great waves of pleasure coursed through
him. He groaned and twitched.  "Now, Chris, now," he growled. "Fuck me
now."

Chris straightened and fumbled in the pocket of his shorts. He brought out
a small tube of Vaseline and spread it thickly over his pulsing tumescence,
then over two fingers. He probed gently with his lubed fingers, and then
moved them in a tight circling motion, loosening Cory and sending him into
minor convulsions as the pleasure crashed through him. Chris then withdrew
his fingers from Cory's body and grasped his hardon. His bright red helmet
was leaking precum and he could feel the blood pulsing through the engorged
vein that lined the underside of it. He moved closer and placed his swollen
mushroom against Cory's light brown, hairless entrance, which opened
slightly. Chris gazed at Cory's smiling face, then pushed gently until his
cap was just inside Cory's entry. He thrust again, and half of him was
inside Cory. His hips convulsed at the warmth and moistness gripping
him. Breathing deeply, he waited until Cory's passage had stretched
sufficiently. He was overcome with pleasure but waited, not wanting to hurt
this wonderfully handsome boy who was giving him the greatest gift one man
or boy could give another.

Cory reassured him. "I'm fine, Chris," he whispered. "Please, just push in
slowly. I want to feel all of you in me."

Chris nodded and pushed into Cory, feeling the muscles open, accepting him
as he pushed deeper, stopping only when every inch of him was inside the
moist, tight, channel, his pubic hair rubbing against Cory's love trail,
his balls slapping gently against Cory's love trail. Cory growled and
reached up, pulling Chris to him. He wrapped his legs around Chris's waist
and began to lick and nip at Chris's neck. Chris began thrusting, his
thickened cock pulling back, then pushing slowly forward as he established
a smooth, fluid, graceful rhythm.

With each thrust of his iron hard shaft Chris moaned softly, knowing for
the second time that he was experiencing the most pleasurable sensation a
boy could feel. He increased the pace of his thrusting, his balls
tightening, soft skin pulling upward, slapping against Cory's upraised
butt.

Cory could feel every inch of Chris as he pushed in and pulled out, his
raging cock-head massaging his marvellously sensitive prostate. He bit his
lips to stifle the scream of pleasure that surged through him as Chris's
dick probed deeper and deeper. The underside of his hard penis, assaulted
by the fine, soft hair of Chris's treasure trail, pulsed and twitched each
time Chris's body rubbed across it. He could feel his balls tightening, his
cum bubbling, straining for release. He writhed and clawed at Chris's back
as he was consumed by the raw sensations overpowering his mind and body.

Chris increased the pace of his thrusting, his dick controlling his
body. He was dripping with sweat, gasping and moaning as his dick moved
easily in and out of Cory's slick, wet passage. He felt his dick thicken
and his helmet swell. "OhmyLord, OhmyLord," he groaned as the tidal wave of
wonder crashed over him. He body stiffened and he thrust his iron hard rod
as deeply as he could into Cory's body. He felt the massive bolts of
extreme pleasure as his dick pumped massive streams of creamy, thick, semen
into Cory. He flung his head back, muttering his cum cry, his eyes rolled
back, his face contorted.  Cory felt every movement of Chris's dick as it
pulsed and filled him. He could not hold back and he thrust his hips
viciously upward, slamming into Chris's sweat-slicked stomach, his slit
gaping as a powerful jet of his seed flew out and crashed against the soft
flesh. They thrust wildly, body slapping wetly against body, until they
were empty.  Chris fell heavily onto Cory's chest, gasping and
whimpering. Cory stroked the back of his head, kissing him gently, feeling
his lover's dick softening, growing smaller and smaller. Chris was filled
with post-orgasmic warmth.  He knew that he should withdraw, but wanted to
let this all too brief time last. He was breathing heavily, his mind
stunned at the pleasure he had felt. Finally, he pulled his hips back and
his dick flopped wetly from Cory's pleasure hole.

Cory rolled Chris on his side and embraced him. They lay together, arms
entwined, kissing with passion. "I love you, Cory," Chris whispered. "As
God is my witness, I love you."

******

The night drew to a close. Todd, with Harry, chivvied and kidded the New
Entries, went to the Canteen to play a game or three of darts, and then
returned to the Gunroom.

Across the harbour The Gunner marked his papers and went over the plans for
the Commanding Officer's Parade. He tried to telephone Vancouver but, as
had happened the night before, there was no answer.

The lights of AURORA winked out one by one as the cadets went to bed and
the Duty Watch gathered in the Guard House. The Phantom, secure in his
hideaway, watched the lights blink out and waited until it was time for him
to steal away into the darkness.

******

The Phantom sat quietly, his back against the Cooks Barracks wall, slowly
fisting his softening dick. He had just blown a massive load into the white
boxers he had stolen from beside Brian's bed. He lifted the shorts to his
nose and breathed deeply, the odour of his cum mingling with the aroma of
the boy whose body the white cotton boxers had so recently covered.  He was
very happy and satisfied.

Ray had responded eagerly, happily moaning with each stream of sperm that
his balls pumped into The Phantom's eager mouth, filling it with his rich,
creamy, juice, finally rising and collapsing across The Phantom's back,
nuzzling and suckling the soft wool of his sweater as his hips twitched
spasmodically, straining to empty the deep pools of cum that had filled his
balls.

Brian, as they kissed good-bye, had reached over and felt the large bulge
filling The Phantom's tight jeans, rubbing and stroking the turgid flesh
hidden by the denim cloth. It had taken all of The Phantom's willpower not
to let Brian pull down the zipper of his denim jeans. He had wanted the boy
badly, but had remained realistic. Time was far too short.

The Phantom debated returning to the Staff Barracks. He glanced at his
watch and realized that he had spent far too much time with Ray and
Brian. As much as he wanted to visit Val, and taste again the wonderfully
satisfying nectar the teenager produced, he decided to be satisfied with
what lay closer to hand. He re-entered the Gunners Barracks and glided
silently down the length of the building, the red beam of his flashlight
revealing the sleeping cadets, who were making the usual night time noises,
snuffling and grunting as they slept. He passed Brian and saw that he was
now sleeping blissfully, his mouth forming a small smile. Dylan slept on
his side, one arm flung out, the other bent, his hand covering his genitals
protectively. The Phantom sniffed in derision and moved quietly to the far
end, and knelt beside a bunk.

The cadet lying in the bunk had an oval face and slightly parted lips
revealing a small gap in his otherwise perfect, white teeth. His blond hair
was cut "high and tight", the fashion of the month it seemed for all the
gunners. Above the thin coverlet his broad shoulders and washboard stomach
glistened with a slight sheen of sweat. It was Anson, and The Phantom drew
down the coverlet to reveal as much of his wonderfully muscled body as he
could.

Mounding Anson's white cotton briefs was a well-formed set of maleness. The
Phantom reached out and his finger traced the outline of four inches of
thick, smooth boy penis, so cleanly circumcised that the outline of the
helmet was clearly defined. Anson's testicles, two large, perfect ovals
mounded the soft cotton of his underpants, balancing delightfully the
thickness of his beautiful penis. Contrasting the hair on his head Anson
had dark, almost black pubic hair that curled from under the tight leg
bands of his briefs.

The Phantom gently pulled down the front of Anson's briefs to reveal a
thick, perfectly formed, circumcised 4-inch penis that culminated in a
deliciously delicate, crisply defined, pale pink helmet, rising from a
thick, black, forest of pubic hair that stretched neatly across his lower
abdomen. His large, oval balls were encased in a hairless scrotum, so thin
as to be translucent. His balls moved gently up and down as he breathed.

Anson's almost flawless penis had a light brown circumcision ring, and
along the top stretched a thick, bifurcated vein that disappeared under his
ring, reappeared, and disappeared again under the gently curving rim of his
helmet. The Phantom ran his finger under the smooth scrotum, feeling the
tiny veins pulsing with the blood that warmed the perfect balls the sac
enclosed. His finger searched under the sac and felt Anson's very hairy
love trail.

Anson stirred and moaned as The Phantom's finger caressed him. His penis
slowly thickened and rose, 7 inches of hard flesh jutting straight out of
his body, the skin darkening below his circumcision ring, glowing red above
it, the vein thick, swollen with blood. As The Phantom caressed and stroked
the soft, smooth underside Anson's cock jerked and began oozing a small
fountain of precum. He lowered Anson's briefs, the smooth, white cotton
once again hiding the boy's rock hard penis with only the throbbing helmet
showing above the thin elastic waistband. He cupped Anson's balls through
the cotton fabric, feeling them tighten as he massaged them gently.

Anson's' boner was bigger than any The Phantom had seen before, even bigger
than Val's, and much thicker. His tongue savoured the flavour of Anson's
heated mushroom, cleaning it of the clear precum. He lowered his head and
began licking the crotch of Anson's briefs, relishing the aroma of musk and
oil blended with the distinctive smell of fresh washed cotton. He licked
and sucked Anson's balls through the thin fabric, filling his nostrils with
the unique odour of Anson's thighs and sweat. His mouth open he tongued and
licked his way over the throbbing erection straining to break free from the
restraining briefs. He flicked his tongue over the tender spot directly
under Anson's helmet, feeling the hot flesh ripple and twitch.

With each stroke of The Phantom's tongue Anson raised his hips and thrust
upward. His balls had retracted so far into his body that only two small
ovals mounded his briefs on either side of his raging cock, his ball sac,
now barely perceptible by the feel of its wrinkled flesh between his
legs. His dick began to throb wildly, pushing the tight fabric away from
his hard belly. The Phantom placed his mouth over the top two inches of
Anson's beautiful, pulsing erection and with his free hand he stroked the
spit soaked cloth, gently rubbing the spasming dick, causing Anson's slit
to gape widely and the first jet of sweet nectar filled The Phantom's
mouth. He swallowed as load after load spurted down his throat, his taste
buds exploding and the liquid ambrosia passed over them.

Anson whimpered and bucked as his dick pumped his balls empty. The Phantom
continued to suck as Anson's sated dick began to shrink, withdrawing to the
safety of his cotton briefs. The feelings of pleasure assaulting his
dickhead were too much and Anson drew up his knees, covering his sex-heated
crotch. The Phantom left the sleeping boy, his tongue cleansing his mouth
of the last drops of Anson's liquid heaven.

******

The next morning the cadets lined up for PT. Harry was decently clad in the
large gym shorts the Twins had given him. The Twins were on their best
behaviour, and Chris was smiling happily. Brian smiled contentedly, half
listening as Anson babbled on about the erotic dream he had had last night,
a dream so intense that his briefs had been crusted and damp with
precum. What Anson did not know was that Brian had heard every whimper and
moan and knew full well what had caused Anson's dream. Brian deliberately
ignored Dylan, who was glowering angrily in the second rank. Even Mike, the
Chief PTI was in a good mood. For the first time in months he had nudged
and prodded his shrunken dick into three inches of hardness and finger
stroked himself into a very satisfying orgasm, producing a thin stream of
milky white fluid.

Before the PT parade was dismissed Tyler announced that classes were
suspended and that the cadets would spend the day cleaning ship. With
visitors and guests arriving, particularly the Americans later in the day,
the Commanding Officer wanted everything shipshape and Bristol fashion.

After breakfast the Band set up their chairs and music stands in the middle
of the Parade Square and began playing show tunes and marches. The cadets
set to with a will, washing and polishing anything that didn't
move. Shortly before lunch the American cadets arrived, their long, low,
grey cutter gliding effortlessly into the bay, her long curving wake
marring the glassy smoothness of the bay. With seemingly effortless grace
the cutter slowed and pulled alongside the jetty.

The Commanding Officer, Tyler and Val met the American cadets and after the
usual pleasantries Father took the officers off to the Wardroom for a drink
and a bite to eat. Tyler took the two senior American petty officers to the
Chiefs Mess, and Val took the rest off to Barracks 5 where they were to be
quartered, and saw them settled in.

After lunch the Americans were taken on a tour of the ship, then bussed
into town for some shopping. They returned shortly before 1600 and many of
them then joined the Canadians in swimming. The Twins read the schedule and
saw that except for a movie, a John Wayne oater to be shown in the Drill
Shed, nothing out of the ordinary was planned to entertain the American
Cadets. They decided that something a little more exciting was in
order. The officers were having a meet and greet in the Wardroom and the
Twins thought that the cadets should as well. They bearded Tyler, who
agreed, and then talked with Kyle, who was Duty Officer, and had to approve
anything they did. Kyle thought their idea a good one and sent the Twins
away happy, and regretting that he could no longer be a part of their mess
life.

The Twins had decided to throw a pizza and pop party. They spoke with the
Canteen Damager who agreed to order in the pizza from town, and gave them a
good price on the cases of pop they would need. They cruised by the Gunroom
and changed into their swim gear, dug out their hidden stash of cash,
returned to the canteen where they paid for the victuals and pop, and then
headed for the beach where they met Master Chief Mark van Beck, the Senior
American Cadet and announced, somewhat grandly, that, in the spirit of
international camaraderie and the brotherhood of the sea, a party was on
offer, all Americans invited, and to come alongside after Rounds, please.

Mark, even less enthusiastic than the Twins about the movie on offer,
immediately agreed to attend the party. This was his first trip outside of
the United States and his first contact ever with Canadians, whom he found
amusing and slightly crazy. From the stories he had heard from other Sea
Cadets who had visited a guy never knew what they hell they would do
next. Mark agreed to come alongside and double up and he told the Twins to
expect about 10 guys. Mark did not tell them that he was also going to
bring along a bottle of bourbon, which he had lifted from his father's
drinks cabinet, and which he had stowed at the bottom of his sea bag.

After dinner the Twins went to the canteen to pick up the cases of
pop. They met Brian, who for some reason was smiling and skylarking, and
Dylan, who was wan, and seemed distracted. Both boys agreed to help carry
the cases back to the Gunroom and to attend the party. As they passed the
door leading to the Headquarters Building Todd went into the Ship's
Office. On Tyler's instructions Greg was invited to attend the party. What
Greg did not know was that his reaction and conduct at the party would be
watched closely. If he passed muster he would be invited to join the
Gunroom Mess, replacing Alfie. As Tyler pointed out, it was either Greg or
Little Big Man, whom nobody wanted in the first place.

Between dinner and Rounds the Twins scrounged some gash buckets and ice,
then cleaned into night clothing. Chris, Fred and Harry, who declared that
he was bored and had seen the movie six times, joined them. Thumper and Two
Strokes declined the invitation, as they were on Duty, as did Jon, who was
popcorn Boatswain at the movie. Tyler and Val, resplendent in their new
straight-legged white trousers and white open neck, short sleeve shirts,
borrowed from The Gunner, had been commanded to attend the reception in the
wardroom, and also could not attend. Nicholas, in his capacity as Chief
Yeoman of Signals was also attending the reception, and complained loudly.

"Tough, RHIP," returned Tyler.

"RHIP?" asked Nicholas. He lived in a world of flags, and pennants and
signal hoists, and any acronym outside of Signalspeak he found confusing.

"Yeah, rank has its pitfalls," replied Tyler. He grimaced and continued,
"And going to a boring reception is one of them."

Shortly after 1830 the shrill sound of the Still being made with a
Boatswains Call heralded the arrival of Kyle, the Duty Officer and his
acolytes, Thumper, who was the Duty Petty Officer, and Anson, who was Duty
Boatswains Mate, a blond haired, blue-eyed boy with a tightly muscled chest
and washboard stomach. Anson sometimes worked out with Gerbil Dick, but was
not as obsessive. He was, in fact, The Assistant's younger brother and had
obviously gotten all the good looks in the family.

Kyle did a quick walk through. The Gunroom was clean, the beds made
properly, and all the cadets were properly dressed in blue bell-bottoms and
white, blue-piped T-shirts. Each cadet stood at the end of his bunk as Kyle
checked them over then, satisfied that everything was as it should be,
passed on to the Petty Officers Mess, where he immediately started yelling
at Little Big Man who, from the noise Kyle was making, had apparently
fallen asleep on his bunk wearing nothing but his underpants.

As soon as the noise in the Petty Officers Mess abated the boys
relaxed. They lounged about and waited for their guests, who were not long
in arriving. Since the night was still warm and it was a party, all the
American cadets were casually dressed in shorts and loose T-shirts. They
all wore sandals or low cut boat shoes without socks and they were all
suntanned, with fine smooth legs, and ready smiles.

As was to be expected after the initial introductions, the cadets sized
each other up, the Americans loose and informal, the Canadian somewhat
standoffish, and a trifle stiff and formal in their night clothing. They
began chatting and laughing, cans of coke were popped, and very quickly
everybody began to relax. The monster pizzas were delivered and, despite
the fact that they had all eaten huge portions of food in the Mess Hall at
dinner, were quickly devoured. Two of the Americans asked if it was all
right to smoke. Harry, who enjoyed an after dinner fag as well as the next
man, quickly pulled out his deck and lit up. The smokers followed suit, and
they puffed happily away.

Mark judged the time was right and produced the bottle of bourbon, placed
it on the table and invited everybody to have a snort on him. Glasses and
mugs were quickly produced and the cadets helped themselves, some taking a
good shot, others a mere dollop. They all filled their glasses to the brim
with coke.

It did not take long before the American and Canadian cadets were the best
of friends. The second round of drinks emptied the bottle. Todd, at Harry's
urging, rummaged in his sea chest and produced his bottle of gin, for which
he received a huge cheer.

Their inhibitions loosened by alcohol the twenty boys sat laughing and
joking, chattering on, swinging the lamp, telling each other outrageous
lies and sea stories. Brian noticed that one of the Americans sported a
magnificent tattoo of an eagle on his bicep. He showed off his own tattooed
arm and everyone admired his Libra zodiac sign. Dylan, who was feeling
relaxed for the first time in days, was persuaded to show his Superman
tattoo. He undid his belt buckle, unsnapped his pants and pushed them and
his white Jockeys down around his knees. The Americans whistled and
clapped, agreeing that he had a great tattoo and, placed where it was, an
icebreaker if ever there was one.

Harry, who didn't have a tattoo, but not to be outdone, exercised his
scatological mind and recited a stream of dirty limericks. Chris and Fred,
who likewise had no tattoos, did know some neat songs. They stood up and
sang Swing Low Sweet Chariot, complete with hand movements, which reduced
the Americans, who had never heard the song, or seen such an act as Chris
and Fred put on, to hysterics.

The applause was such that the two Canadian cadets performed an encore and
sang The Sexual Life of a Camel. This brought down the house and everybody
agreed that another round was called for. Cory, always willing to help out,
brought out his bottle of vodka.  Greg, smiling happily, began to sing The
North Atlantic Squadron and the others joined in enthusiastically.  Each
cadet seemed to know a different verse, each verse dirtier than the
other. In the end it was agreed that the Canadians knew more, and dirtier
verses.

When their combined repertoire was exhausted the cadets sat back,
laughing. No one was drunk, though most of them were a little tipsy. Their
conversations waxed and waned, and while everybody was having a good time
it was evident that the party was about to descend into boredom. Tony
Valpone, a short, slim, darkly handsome, black haired American cadet,
suggested a game of poker. Since no one had any money, this met with less
than an enthusiastic response. "Well, fuck, we can always play strip
poker," proclaimed Tony, more or less in jest.

Mark, six feet of tanned, firmly chiselled prime American stud, with a mass
of curly, sun bleached hair, sparkling blue eyes, perfect teeth and a
marvellously rounded butt (which Cory told Todd should have "Surfer Dude"
tattooed on it), spoke up, observing that while they were all guys and
strip poker could be fun and funny, he wasn't about to drop his laundry for
some poker game. Tony, who had had one over the mark, called him a chicken.

Todd immediately picked up on this. "Well, we could always do a Zulu
Warrior," he offered cautiously. A Zulu Warrior was not for the faint of
heart, or the inhibited. Neither he nor Cory had planned on doing anything
too outrageous but, what the hell, the Americans suggested it first.

"How's that?" asked Mark.

"What the hell is Zulu Warrior?" demanded Tony.

"Well, it's a song," began Todd.

"And a game," continued Cory.

"But then again . . ." said Todd.

"If you get so uptight about a game of strip poker . . ." Cory went on.

"Perhaps it's just as well we don't play it," finished Todd.

"Yeah," piped in Greg. "It's a bit rough, but it can be as funny as hell."
Unlike the Americans he knew what a Zulu Warrior was.

The Americans regarded the Canadians with suspicion. They were not all that
sure what the crazy Canadians were up to, but . . . "It's a game?" asked
Mark.

"Oh, yes.  Just a game, and a contest," replied Todd deceptively.

"To get the most Zulu Chiefs," offered Cory.

"Zulu Chiefs?"

"Yes. But you might . . .no, never mind. It was just an idea," replied
Todd.

"Hold on just a minute," Tony said firmly. "First you tell us, then you say
never mind. It doesn't involve anything funny, does it?" he finished
darkly.

"Oh, no. Not at all," Harry put in his oar. He also knew what a Zulu
Warrior was. He flashed Cory a wicked grin. "All you have to do is take off
a piece of clothing. Of course you don't have to go all the way. But then,
if you don't, you can't be a Zulu Chief."

"Assuming I would want to become a Zulu Chief, how do we go about it?"
asked Mark.

"Why don't we just show you," said Todd. "You can always stop if it gets
too much for you." He managed to inject in his tone of voice just the right
inflection that implied that anybody who didn't participate, and become a
Zulu Chief, was marked down as a wuss.  Sceptical, the Americans agreed to
participate.

Under Todd's direction the mess table was pushed aside and the boys
arranged themselves in a loose circle, alternating nationalities, Canadian
beside American. They sat on the deck, some with their legs spread, others
stretched out, ankles crossed, the Americans wondering what the hell they
had gotten themselves into.

While Cory happily checked out as many of the American baskets that he
could see by looking up the legs of their shorts, Todd placed the empty
bourbon bottle in the middle of the circle. "Usually we just sing and
point," he began, "but, we want to keep it totally honest, so we'll use the
bottle."

"You guys have done this before?" asked Tony sceptically.

"Sure. Lots of times," lied Chris, who was just as much in the dark as the
Americans. He had heard of a Zulu Warrior, but had never been one.

Greg stirred the pot by saying, "Usually only when there are enough guys
with the balls to play."

Mark look at Tony.  Either by accident or design Greg had thrown down the
gauntlet. Before accepting the challenge Tony spoke. "This doesn't involve
kissing, does it?"

"Good God, no way," affirmed Todd, shocked at the suggestion. Not that he
would have minded kissing Tony, but then, well . . . He shook his head
firmly.

"Or circumcision?" queried Mark darkly.

"As if you have to worry," sniggered Tony.

"Or you," snapped Mark.

Todd hastened to reassure them. "Nothing funny at all, honest. We spin the
bottle and when it stops in front of a guy he takes off a piece of
clothing. If he strips down all the way he's a Zulu Chief. The side with
the most Chiefs wins. It's all very simple. Anybody who doesn't want to
play can just watch."

Nobody left the circle. Todd placed the bottle in the middle of the circle,
gave it a spin, and began the musical chant that began the game. "I am a
zumba, zumba, zumba, I am a Zulu, Zulu, Chief," he sang in a surprisingly
pleasant tenor voice.

As the bottle spun around the circle Cory and Greg joined in the chant. The
three boys continued to chant until the bottle stopped spinning. It pointed
at Harry. The boys sang the next part of the chant and pointed at
Harry. "Pull 'em down, you Zulu warrior, pull 'em down, you Zulu Chief,
Chief, Chief." Harry leaned over and quickly undid his bootlace. He
smirked, pulled the lace from the boot and placed it on the deck beside
him.

Todd nudged Mark, who was sitting beside him, and made a spinning motion
with his hand. Mark nodded his understanding and, as the boys, now joined
by Brian and Fred, once again took up the chant, spun the bottle.

As the game progressed and more and more pieces of clothing joined the
growing pile beside each cadet, all of the boys joined in the chant, some
of them pounding the deck in time with the music, laughing and jeering as
the bottle spun around the circle, their reluctance gone, taken up with
what had turned out to be a bit of harmless nonsense. They chucked shit at
each other, and jeered and cheered as each piece of clothing, some removed
with reluctance, some with enthusiasm, was piled on the deck.

The bottle continued to spin and the boys continued to chant and before
very long Chris, Mark, and Tony were wearing nothing but their thin cotton
briefs. Harry had lost his boots, socks and gunshirt, as had Greg and
Fred. Brian and Dylan had lost only their boots. The Twins, much to their
surprise, had not been required to remove anything. Most of the American
cadets, although they had less on, were still more or less fully clothed,
having lost a sandal here, a deck shoe there, the bottle having gone
against the Canadians.

As the cadets chanted enthusiastically Tony spun the bottle. It stopped in
front of Fred who stood up, shrugged and undid his belt buckle. He let his
bell-bottoms drop to the deck, stepped out of them and kicked them
aside. He had quite forgotten that he was wearing a gunshirt, and could
have removed that instead of his pants. He coloured slightly and swore. He
swore even louder and longer when the laughing circle of boys pointed at
his boxers, which were white, and covered with red hearts.

When a semblance of order had been restored the chant was taken up again
and Harry spun the bottle. It stopped in front of Chris. For a very brief
moment, as the chant of "pull 'em down" echoed in his ears, Chris
hesitated. He was quite accustomed to being naked in front of his
messmates, but . . . By the same token, he knew that if he chickened out he
would never live it down. Then he thought, "What the fuck, ain't got
nothing I'm ashamed of." He whipped down his briefs and dropped them on the
floor beside him.

The Canadian cadets hooted and clapped and proclaimed Chris a Zulu
Chief. Todd gave him the universal sign for "OK." and reached around a very
cute redheaded American to slap Chris's bare butt. Chris grinned broadly,
bowed low and sat on the deck, his balls, and just the deep pink head of
his penis touching the smooth wooden deck. He could have dressed again but
instead he sat naked, enjoying the feeling of freedom he had, thinking that
he was a hell of a lot cooler with no clothes on.

The bottle spun again. It stopped in front of Tony. He stood up, and as the
boys chanted, slowly began to remove his Jockeys, taking his time, teasing
them by turning and revealing first one, then the other hair-covered
cheek. Turning again Tony slowly lowered the front of his briefs, revealing
his black, curly patch of pubic hair. As the cadets yelled their
encouragement, Tony pushed the briefs lower, exposing first his short,
perfectly formed, thick, circumcised penis, and then his large, hairy
balls. He turned around, bent over, stepped out of his underpants and
grabbed his butt cheeks, revealing his small, brown, puckered, hole. He
straightened, turned around again, bowed low, and sat down beside Chris,
who was laughing so hard he fell back and banged his head on the deck.

With each spin of the bottle the small piles of clothing grew. Brian and
Dylan were soon clad only in their white underpants, as was the redheaded
American boy and Mark. Before very long Fred lost his gunshirt and Greg,
after three losing spins in a row, had lost his boots and socks. As the
bottle continued to spin it became apparent that what had begun as a silly
game was now a quite serious contest to determine who, the Canadians or the
Americans, would have the most Zulu chiefs. If the bottle stopped in front
of an American cadet the Canadians groaned and his countrymen cheered. If
it stopped in front of a Canadian the Americans took up the cry.

The Twins were in heaven. They had not planned this, but they were
thoroughly enjoying themselves. Usually whatever deviltry they got up to
backfired on them. This time around they could not have done better if they
tried.

As First Post sounded the bottle stopped in front of Fred. He stood up,
blushed deeply and quickly lowered his colourful boxers, revealing his
long, thin, five-inch penis, which was blushing as red as the rest of his
body. He smiled goofily and sat down, the Canadian boys hooting and
slapping him on the back. One up for Canada.

Todd spun the bottle and it stopped in front of Mark. The American cadets
yelled encouragement as he slipped down his briefs, revealing a
marvellously muscled and tanned body. He reached down and waved what
everyone agreed was a well formed set of heavy balls and a streamlined,
mushroom-headed dick at the Canadians.

The Twins laughed and stared in disbelief at Mark's antics. Had they
schemed like devils they would not have had much luck getting the pants off
the American cadets. Now, here they were, staring at two well formed
helmets and two sets of smooth, oval testicles, Mark's set hanging quite
low, Tony's hairy sac seeming to hover just below his pale pink
mushroom. Eight sets of what appeared to be fine examples of American
boyhood covered by thin cotton fabric waited to be revealed. Todd smiled at
Cory who grinned back. Tonight, no matter what they would sneak away to
their quiet place.

Cory's bottle of vodka had been reduced to a small drop. He passed it to
Mark who, together with Tony, Chris, and Fred, was sitting off to one side,
their soft, flaccid, almost identical penises resting over their
wonderfully perfect ovals. Mark drained the bottle. Cory left the circle,
rummaged in Jon's kit bag, and withdrew a bottle of white rum. This was
worth a rousing cheer from all concerned, which was quickly followed by an
even louder cheer from the Canadians as the empty bourbon bottle stopped in
front of Greg, who was directly opposite Cory. He stood up and dropped his
pants. Cory fell immediately in lust as Greg's slim, elegant, perfectly
proportioned body was slowly revealed. Under his white briefs his 4-inch,
slim circumcised dick rested softly, with two sweet oval testicles nestled
snugly at its base.

Another spin and Cory was reduced to his white boxers, which were baggy and
effectively hid the semi he had formed from staring a Greg's basket. Todd
noticed it and smacked him on the back of his head. Cory's epithet for his
brother was lost as the Canadian cadets shouted in triumph. The bottle had
stopped in front of Harry.

Harry rose majestically, a magnificently muscled and tanned young man and
without hesitation stripped off his briefs. He flung them aside and raised
his arms above his head in a gesture of defiance and triumph, his sweat
sheened skin glowing golden under the harsh overhead lights. The cadets,
Canadian and American, sat in stunned awe for before them stood not a mere
Zulu Chief, but a Zulu King.

Tony, who claimed a thousand years of Roman machismo, felt a stirring in
his groin. Mark, accustomed to muscled beach boys, was slack-jawed. He knew
a magnificent body when he saw one, but this was beyond magnificent. The
Twins, who had seen Harry nude many times, were stunned by the sheer male
virility of him.  Brian gulped involuntarily and Chris momentarily forgot
that he was in love with the Twins.

The tannoy growled and Last Post shattered the silence. The cadets, many of
them embarrassed by their sudden and unexpected reaction to Harry's
nakedness, began dressing. As the Americans made their good byes, Cory and
Chris slipped away to a quiet place just inside the tree line of the forest
bordering the barracks. Cory dropped to his knees and gave Chris such a
ball rattling blowjob that he was weak-kneed and light-headed for an hour
afterward.

Harry, flush with victory, was about to reach down for his discarded briefs
when the door leading to the Petty Officers Mess opened. Little Big Man,
without permission, stomped in. He took one look at Harry's glistening
body. His jaw dropped, then quickly closed. Little Big Man's mind raced
back to the summer before, when he had . . . in the showers . . . His eyes
narrowed as he scanned the length of the Gunroom. He saw Fred, who was
still jaybird naked, and Greg, who had draped his pants around his
shoulders, and Mark, who was pulling on his briefs. Beside him Tony
lounged, scratching idly at his now covered parts. "What the fuck is this?"
Little Big Man snarled at Harry. "A faggot-fest?"

Harry took one ominous step forward. Little Big Man cringed. "What the fuck
are you doing in MY mess, you little cocksucker?" roared Harry.  Little Big
Man stepped back. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of
it. He pulled open the door and stepped through. "Queers," he spat
venomously. "You're all a bunch of queers!" He slammed the door closed.

Harry chuckled softly. He too remembered last summer in the showers. "You
wish I was," said softly to the closed door. "Oh, but don't you wish I
was!"