Date: Tue, 12 Aug 2008 16:21:47 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@sympatico.ca>
Subject: A Sailor's Tale - Chapter 12

	This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between
consenting adult males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends
you, do not read any further; and ask yourself why you are at this site.
	This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or
locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, although
it may be loosely based on real events and people.
	If you are under the age of 18 (21 in some areas) and too young to
be reading such material or if you are in a locale or country where it is
not legal to read such material then please leave immediately and come back
when it is legal for you to do so. We'll be glad to have you back.

Copyright 2008 by John Ellison

	What follows is the final chapter of this work. I thank all my
readers who commented; and a special thanks to my editor, Peter, who made
this much better.


A Sailor's Tale


Chapter 12


	After dropping Sean off, I drove back to the Barracks, went to my
room, made up my rack, crawled under the cool sheets and died. I slept
soundly until around 1500 when I awoke. The room, even though all the
windows were open, was very close and muggy. I showered and settled down to
plow through the pile of papers The Kid had given me only the morning
before. It was a no go. The room was far too hot for my liking, and the
breeze blowing in from the sea was moist and warm, a portent of a storm
brewing.
	Since the Barracks was not air conditioned, and not likely to be in
my lifetime, I could strip down and suffer, go to the Mess, which was air
conditioned, or I could do something about it. Since I wanted to get some
work done I decided to do something about it.
	I grabbed my chequebook and drove on over to the CANEX, where I
paid about ten per cent above market for a window air conditioner, which
served me right for being too lazy to drive into Victoria. I also hit the
beer store, and picked up a pizza. Food in the Mess Hall on the weekends
was usually abysmal, since the place was manned by the most junior Cooks
and one pissed-off Cook Petty Officer (Pissed off because he had to work
the weekend). Besides, I liked pizza.
	Back in my room I loaded up the fridge, wrestled the air
conditioning unit into a window, flashed it up, cracked a bottle of beer,
and settled back to my reading.
	Truth be told, come Monday a.m., I would be a glorified hotel
keeper. The info package contained roster sheets, booking sheets, linen
inventories, and duty rosters. I was responsible for safety and
discipline. I was responsible for cleanliness. My list of duties seemed to
go on and on, boiled down to keeping the riffraff out (mainly women), the
beds supplied with clean linen, and the heads and washplaces clean.
	To assist me I had a staff of five, plus civilian cleaners who came
in daily, and cleaned the common areas and the heads and wash
places. During the summer and fall training periods I was on duty from 0800
until 1600, and on call for the balance of the day. While the desk was
manned until midnight, and we usually knew well in advance how many bodies
were expected at any given time on any given day, I had to be available in
the event of trouble, or a busload of ratings showing up unannounced, a
fight breaking out in one of the rooms, or a drunk being obnoxious.
	Permanent residents were mostly low ranking support staff, Cooks,
Stewards, Storesmen and the like, who, according to a neatly lettered and
laid out Watch and Station Bill, stood one watch (four hours) in 142,
manning the desk.
	In addition to the Permanent Force roomers, I would also be
responsible, from time to time, for transients, notably Sea Cadets. They
would be housed in two large rooms separated by a wide corridor, which was
known as "Ankle Biter Alley". The rooms held twenty bunks each, and nothing
else. Unlike the others, Sea Cadets stood no duty watches, were under
curfew - they had to be in no later than 2100 - and cleaned their own
spaces.
	According to the Booking Rosters we could expect every
non-transient cabin to be in constant use until September.
	I continued to read well into the night, polishing off the pizza,
and sipping beer. I was vaguely aware of the deep rolling thunder of a
storm approaching when I crawled into bed, exhausted, and not a little
drunk.

******

	Sunday dawned like any other day on the West Coast, with clear
skies and a warm sun. The storm that had savaged the base during the night
had done nothing to cool the air; in fact it was muggier and more humid
than before.
	I could hear the air conditioner humming as I stretched and
scratched. I got up, showered, and dressed. Shortly after 1100 I left the
Barracks and wandered over to the Chiefs' Mess where, for $4.00, I
purchased a ticket for brunch. It was good value for money, and was not
catered out of the Mess Hall. I loaded my plate with food and walked into
the dining room.
	Sunday was family day, and more than half the tables were filled
with families - wives and kids of the Chiefs and Petty Officers assigned to
the Dockyard. It was also open to all ranks, and here and there were
families of some of the more senior ratings, and an Officer or two.
	I found a small corner table and ate breakfast, and then returned
to the Barracks. I automatically checked the sign-in book and saw that six
transients had left, with no check-ins. This was about normal for a
Sunday. The CF flight from the east would not arrive in Vancouver for
several hours and the new "guests" would catch a PWA flight after that, so
there would be no check-ins until much later in the day.
	I suppose I should have inspected the now-empty transient rooms,
but what the hell, it was a Sunday. I returned to my quarters and turned on
the television - nothing but televangelists spouting fire and brimstone so
I clicked it off.
	I bummed around most of the afternoon. I drove to Beacon Hill Park,
thinking that a swim would be nice, but the beach was infested with
families enjoying a perfect day. I could have gone to either the Chiefs'
Mess or the Fleet Club for their afternoon barbecues but I hate barbecue,
so I drove into Victoria and stopped at the news stand in the Empress
Hotel, bought a shit locker full of newspapers, and returned to the
Barracks.
	The place was eerily quiet, with no one but the Duty Hand around,
which was not surprising. When you live on one of the most beautiful pieces
of real estate in the world you don't spend much time in your room. Normal
routine for anyone not on duty, and with wheels, or access to them, was to
take off up island, or over to Vancouver. On the weekends the Dockyard, and
the Barracks, were virtual ghost towns.
	I read my papers, wandered over to the Mess Hall for dinner, and
then strolled back to the Barracks. I chatted with the Duty Hand for a bit
and then, for the first time, went into the office. This was nothing
special, the usual desks, chairs and locked filing cabinets.
	On the desk that was to be mine was a stack of file folders, on top
of which was a neatly typed note that requested me to read the documents
and sign them. They were the dreaded DA accounts, which listed, down to the
last pail and scrub brush, every item in the Barracks inventory. Beds,
dressers, lockers, the whole nine yards. I was responsible and accountable
for every item in the accounts.
	According to regulations I was supposed to "sight" each and every
item detailed in the accounts. Since this would have taken me God knows how
long - with no guarantee that everything that was supposed to be there was
actually there, I did what every right thinking sailor would have done. I
signed off on everything and said a silent prayer that the place would burn
down before a muster could be taken.
	I went to bed early, and, lulled by the low drone of the air
conditioner, was soon asleep, only to be abruptly awakened by an almighty
crash.
	I sat up with a start and saw a huge, bulky shadow, with what
looked like the bowsprit of the HMS Victory jutting out from it, pointing
upward at a sharp angle. I blinked the sleep from my eyes but by then the
shadow had disappeared into the bathroom. Suddenly the room was flooded
with light as the bathroom fixture was turned on. Since my bed was less
than 20 feet away, and in a direct line of sight, I saw a young man, just
over six feet tall, well muscled where it counted (and an ass to die for)
trying to maneuvere the biggest dick this side of a porno flick down to
point into the toilet bowl.
	The thing had to be all of a foot long, and was very thick - it was
actually, as attested by later scientific measurement, 12.1 inches in
length and eight inches around, superbly circumcised and looking very
smooth and unblemished, save for a thin, straight ring about halfway down
the shaft The massive organ hung over a set of well-formed, very large
testicles. It was a handsome weapon, built for small ponies and large
women.
	With a little straining and flexing of his butt cheeks, the owner
of this monumental piece of meat let loose with a roaring torrent of
urine. >From the size of his penis, and the force of his piss, I figured
that if there was ever a fire I had no worries. It's not often you see a
two-inch fire hose attached to a human body.
	When he had finally emptied his bladder, the strange young man
shook his massive hose, shaking loose a few errant drops of urine. With no
pressure on his prostate his penis shrank a little. I figured that the
floor show was over. He'd had his piss and would go back to bed. Little did
I know this was only the introduction. The main act was about to begin.
	Now, ordinarily I am no big fan of horse cocks. I like sucking
dick, but anything over a mouthful is a waste. Since I didn't have any
intention of sucking this beast, and since I am a bit of voyeur, and since
from his actions he was about to do more than just piss, I thought, what
the hell, I might learn something new. A raging hard-on this size had to be
a two-handed job, maybe three. Who knew, I might learn a new technique.
	As I watched, the young man stood looking down at his dick, which
he held in his right hand. Then he began to slowly stroke himself. His
penis rose to its full glory. He stroked slowly, lovingly, his eyes closed,
breathing slowly through his nose. He raised his left hand and rubbed two
fingers along his pee hole, coating them with his precum. Using his precum
as a lubricant his fingers slowly massaged his magnificent mushroom shaped
glans. Up, over, around, back over for a new supply, back around and down
the shaft.
	The skin above his circumcision ring darkened and his testicles
constricted. He moved his right hand up to just below the head, and fisted
the bottom half of his dick with his left hand. He began to pump his cock
with both hands, speeding up slightly. It was still a long, slow pump. He
quickened his pace and dropped his left hand to his side, clenching and
unclenching it in time with his pumping right hand, clench for stroke. He
moved his right hand up again, his forefinger bent and rubbing the
underside of his glans. He began to breathe in short, sharp gasps. He bent
his knees, and his hand moved faster and faster. He threw his head back and
as I watched . . .
	His face contorted and he clenched his lips. His body began to
quiver and he pushed his massive, distended cock down, pointing directly
into the toilet bowl. His thrust his hips forward. His breath stopped and a
huge wad of creamy white spooge exploded from his dick and smashed into the
water of the toilet bowl.
	From the echoing effect of the bowl I thought a depth charge had
gone off!
	He shot another, then another, stream of semen into the toilet
bowl, each time thrusting his hips forward. He must have been saving this
load because he continued to shoot massive spurts into the toilet. Each
time he pumped a gusher he pushed his hips forward, and as the supply
diminished his hip thrusts became less forceful until, at the end, they
were just short, quick little thrusts, each spurt of semen smaller and less
forceful. Finally, his balls had no more to give. He passed his hand over
the top of his dick head, wiping off the last few drops of his
ejaculate. He was finished and his dick began to shrink to what was still a
man sized piece of meat. He turned to the sink, turned on the water and
began to clean his hands
	While this strange young man was busy, I turned over in my bed, my
back to the bathroom. I figured what the hell, I had enjoyed the show and
there was no point in letting on that I had seem him spank the monkey. Far
wiser to turn my back and pretend to be asleep. Besides, just watching him
service himself had left me exhausted.
	The water stopped running. Although I couldn't see him I knew that
he was about to get a shock. When he turned to re-enter the bedroom he
would have a clear view of the corner bed and a clear view that the bed was
not empty. I was right. Just before the light went out I heard a very
clear, "Oh Fuck!"
	I drifted off hearing a quiet stream of "Oh Fucks!" coming from the
other side of the room.

******

	The next morning my internal clock woke me at a few minutes before
0600. I'd been getting up at 0600 every morning for years, and my body had
just naturally adjusted to it. I sat up and looked around the room. The
other bed was empty, unmade, and with what looked like a remnant sale
strewn around it. This offended my sense of good order and discipline. I
was quite prepared to suffer in silence a wank every so often in the
bathroom, with or without the door closed. I was not prepared to have the
room looking like a rubbish tip. I determined to have a chat with my room
mate and instil some common mess deck courtesy in him.
	Since he wasn't around I got up, and headed toward the bathroom,
only to be brought up short as the blaring sound of a bugle reverberated
throughout the Barracks. I recognized it as the "Rouse," or, as we called
it in the Navy, "Wakey-Wakey." I had been awakened by that same call every
morning for 18 weeks when I was in Cornwallis, the Recruit School in Nova
Scotia. I'm an old traditionalist when it comes to things Navy and I rather
enjoyed hearing the bugle blaring. Bugles had, for the most part, gone the
way of all flesh, replaced by the shrill sounds of the Boatswains Call.
	As the bugle notes died away I began my morning routine. When I was
finished in the bathroom I dressed, or "cleaned" into the rig of the day:
dark green trousers, light green, open necked, short-sleeved shirt, mirror
shined wingtips. On my way out of the room I picked up my peak cap - also
green, and walked into the main lobby. From Ankle Biter Alley I could hear
the moans, groans, and assorted noises of a large group of young males when
rudely awakened. More noise drifted down from the deck above. The Barracks
was waking up.
	I walked over to the Mess Hall and ate a leisurely breakfast. Fed
and watered, I walked over to the Lower Parade Square, where everybody's
working day began. I might be the NCO In Charge of the Barracks, but I
still had to attend Divisions.
	Divisions is a Naval tradition that goes back to the days of the
sailing ship. Essentially it is a way to ensure that everybody is up and
functioning and ready to work. Each Division - Deck, Gunnery, Supply, and
so on, would report to the Executive Officer, who would report to the
Commanding Officer. The flag (in our case, flags - the so-called Maple Leaf
Flag - an ill-conceived and poorly designed banner which I never cared for,
and the Command Flag), would be raised on the mast-like flagstaff, any
special orders or instructions would be read out, and then we would be
dismissed to carry on with the work day.
	Divisions at Esquimalt were held on the Lower Parade Square. The
Upper Parade Square, which was the vast expanse of concrete directly across
the road from the Barracks, was used for special parades where large
numbers of participants were involved. This happened only once or twice a
year, always in the summer, and usually being a Reserve or Sea Cadet
graduation parade.
	Monday to Thursday Divisions were fairly simple. All officers and
ratings not on duty, or at least without a plausible excuse, would muster
around the edge of the parade square. Shortly before 0800 the Parade GI
would call for markers and the pre-appointed markers would double out to
their Divisional marker, which were painted on the concrete square. When
the markers were aligned, and in order, the Parade would be ordered to fall
in, facing a huge concrete and metal dais, behind which was the
flagstaff. Beside the flagstaff was an elderly 12-pound field gun - the
Court-martial Gun. The gun was fired each time a court martial board went
into formal session.
	When everyone was in place the Duty Quartermaster would pipe the
"Still" on his call, the flags would go up and, if there was a Court
Martial beginning that morning, the gun would be fired. Any special orders
or instructions would be read out, including who was being Court-martialed,
and why, and then we were dismissed. All in all it took about an
hour. Sometimes less if there were no announcements. Once we were dismissed
we then went our many ways.
	Friday morning was hell. Friday was Ceremonial Divisions. We would
clean into Number l's, there would be a 100-man Guard, and the Band would
march from the School of Music, along the road separating the Barracks
Blocks, down the ramp separating the two parade squares and, crashing and
thumping out a martial air, take up their position. If the majority of the
bandsmen weren't too hung over they didn't sound too bad. The Chaplains,
resplendent in cassock, snowy white surpluses, and Naval stole, would
stroll out and take up their position. A work party would amble out, each
member carrying a varnished and painted drum. They would form an Altar of
Drums in front of the dais and disappear. The pecker checkers and stretcher
bearers (usually Sea Cadets) would position themselves strategically around
the square. They would go into action when anyone fainted (or pretended
to).
	The Band would play the Anthems ("Oh Canada" and "God Save The
Queen"), the Flags would be raised. The Chaplains, three of them - C of E,
RC, and a Rabbi, would pray, the Band would play the Naval Hymn and only
then would the Base Commander's staff car drive up to the dais.
	The Base Commander, a miserable four-ringer, owed his position to
knowing when to bend in the prevailing wind. Up until 1969 he had been
"Blue" Navy. After 1969 he was "Green" and he enforced every directive from
Ottawa, no matter how outlandish or foolish. If the then Minister of
Defense (whose grave I will live long enough to piss on!) said shit, our
gallant CO was there to wipe his slimy butt. To the old hands, who loved
and cherished the Old Navy, he was a Queen's Hard Bargain, and more or less
ignored. To the new hands, who hadn't known anything but the "New" Navy, he
was a prick, and more or less ignored.
	The CO would then, depending of his level of grumpiness, and
trailed by hangers-on unto the ninth generation, and the ship's cat,
inspect the Ship's Company. Usually, this meant just the Guard, although on
some mornings he had a fit of responsibility and inspected everything in
sight. On a good day we averaged two hours, and a dozen fainters. On a bad
day, when the old fucker inspected everybody, it took a good three hours
and upwards of twenty or so casualties. It wasted the morning and
guaranteed a full house at the Fleet Club at lunch.
	Normal Divisions over - without, I might add, the members of the
Barracks Staff - I went to work.

******

	When I arrived at the Barracks and entered the office I found the
hands all lined up. They were clean, shaved, and didn't smell of booze, so
I figured the day had gotten off to a good start. I introduced myself and
put out my hand to the first man in line, a Leading Seaman Admin type,
whom, in a way I had met during the night. I hesitated a moment - I knew
what he'd been doing with the hand he thrust at me, then remembered he'd
washed it - and shook the hand of "Bob, Bob the Writer." He was about 25
years old, well turned out, and bespectacled. He wore an ugly pair of black
horn-rimmed glasses - without which he could barely see to navigate. For
some reason he wouldn't make eye contact as we shook hands.
	While Bob the Writer was almost a total stranger to me, the other
members of the staff were not. Much to my delighted surprise three of them
were Reservists and had been my trainees. They were Jordan and Jason
Fitzroy, identical twins, and "Little" George Gaebler. Marc Worden, the
fourth lad, was a Regular, whom I knew very slightly. Jordan and Jason were
19, Little George 20, and Marc an elderly 23.
	As noted, the Fitzroy Twins were alike as two peas in a pod. They
were the same height, 5'8", weighed the same, 160 pounds, with square-jaws,
sort of an Arrow Collar man in uniform. They had bright, dancing brown eyes
and naturally curly black hair. This they kept buzzed on the side and back,
with the top teased and combed and brushed just so. I think they used a jar
of Vaseline every morning. They both had hard-muscled, trim forms with
broad chests that tapered to slim waists and firm, muscular legs. They had
ready smiles and more or less permanent tans, which was not surprising in
that they spent every lunch hour sun bathing - naked - on the roof of the
barracks.
	Because they were identical twins, and because they were known to
be scamps, and often pretended to be the other, they were the only sailors
who had the last three digits of the official numbers (actually their SIN
numbers) included with their last names on their name tags. Jason was
"Fitzroy 997" and Jordan "Fitzroy 998", and at Roll Call always referred to
as such. They had been born and raised in Vancouver.
	The Twins were the Barracks dog's bodies. During the day they drove
either the passenger van or the quarter-ton truck, assigned to the
Barracks. They drove for me, and for the other Barracks NCO's, shuttled
people to and from the airport, picked up supplies, and so on. When they
weren't out they would hang around the office, bickering as brothers will
do, or admiring each other. They were very much in love with each other,
and shared a room together. I had known for quite some time that they were
gay. They didn't advertise it, seemingly only had eyes for each other, and
didn't bother anyone. It was more or less accepted that they were a
couple. As long as they were discreet I did not foresee a problem. They
were on what was called "Class C" Service, filling Permanent Force billets
that could not be filled except by employing Reserves. Actually, it was
cheap way of filling the gaps. Being Reservists they earned about
seventy-five percent of what a Permanent Force sailor would be paid.
	With the manpower shortage the Navy was prepared to overlook their
perceived failings. These two I would have to keep an eye on, however. I
knew from past experience that they were totally indifferent to anything
involving discipline. When I first knew them they were constantly in
trouble. Nothing serious, just enough to piss you off. It was sort of like
living with two very curious chimps.
	Little George Gaebler was hardly little. He stood 6' 6" tall, and
weight 300 pounds if he weighed an ounce, all of it solid muscle. He had a
firm, muscular body, with a perfectly formed butt that strained the fabric
of his uniform pants. He was blessed with the rosy complexion of the truly
healthy young male, and had dark brown hair, which he kept long on top and
teased into a sort of a pompadour. His most arresting features were his
eyes, which were so dark brown they were almost black, with long, silken
lashes.
	Unlike the Fitzroy Twins, I had yet to see Little George naked,
although I can attest that he was "proportional" in all things. I once had
occasion to wake him up and saw outlined under the thin fabric of his
tighty whiteys (the only underpants he wore) a most magnificent, thick,
obviously circumcised, erection.
	Little George was a farm boy from Saskatchewan. He was also as
straight as an arrow, and very religious. He went to chapel every
Sunday. He rarely swore, never drank, and did not smoke. He had a
girlfriend whom he adored, and they had an "understanding", and aside from
a chaste goodnight kiss, nothing sexual had occurred between them. Both
were virgins and saving themselves for marriage. How Little George managed
to stay out of the clutches of the Fitzroy Twins I often wondered. I think
fear of what Little George would do to them if they tried anything had a
lot to do with it.
	Little George was the Storesman, and during the day he handed out,
and took in, the hundreds of pieces of bed linen issued and returned by the
Barracks occupants. Like Jason and Jordan he was a Reservist on Class "C"
Service.
	Marc Worden was a Navy brat from Toronto, stood about 5'8" and had
brown hair. He had a lean, compact body, with an open oval-shaped face, and
slightly overlarge, jugged ears. He was tightly muscled from years of
playing lacrosse, with a magnificent tan.
	Marc was the Duty Electrician and he spent much of his day
wandering the building (and the adjacent Nelles Block), replacing dead
light bulbs and jury-rigging repairs to the aging barracks blocks' wiring.
	He was quieter than the other boys, yet friendly and had warm,
hazel eyes that lit up when he smiled. I was quite smitten with him and
more than once almost lost my composure when he smiled shyly at me when I
told him one of my dirty jokes or chucked shit at him. This one I had to be
careful with. He was very gung-ho. His work uniform was always immaculate,
stiffly starched, and ironed to perfection. His hair was cut so short he
looked shaven and would have made the Parade GI's diseased old heart go
pitty-pat with delight. He was the most "Pusser" sailor I had seen outside
of the Gunnery School in many a day. He was gaiters without the gate. My
Stevie Straight-Arrow routine went into overdrive.
	I shook hands in turn with all of them. I gave them a pep talk,
basically an "England expects . . ." speech.
	It was the usual bullshit speech and they knew it. When I turned
around Jordan would look at Jason, who would shrug as if to say, "Here we
go again!" Marc would stare at the deck and shake his head. Little George
scratched himself. Only Bob the Writer seemed to be paying attention. What
the goofy things didn't realize was that there was a mirror attached to the
bulkhead right beside them and I could see everything they did. They were
not prepared when I segued into my "Gotcha" speech.
	"Gentlemen," I began, "I am sure that anyone who knows me will tell
you that I am a fair, but firm man."
	Three heads nodded their agreement.
	"They will also tell you," I continued, "that I expect what I give:
professionalism to the job."
	The same three heads nodded their agreement.
	"Now, I know that all of you are professionals. Which leads me to
ask the question: why, when I came aboard on Friday afternoon all the
professionals were off gigoloing up island?"
	The Fitzroy Twins winced, Mark hung is head, Little George rubbed
one well formed butt cheek and Bob the Writer blushed! They now knew that I
knew that they had skived off on Friday.
	"Being professionals, I think you will all agree that The Kid
should be compensated for his doing your job."
	Five heads nodded reluctantly.
	"To that end I think it would be nice if the next five times his
name comes up for a duty watch one of you would deem it an honour to stand
in for him."
	Bob the Writer nodded. As Barracks Writer he kept the Watch and
Station Bill up to date. He would "make it so". Four heads turned and four
sets of eyes glared at him. They couldn't do much. I had them cold and they
knew it.
	"It also occurs to me that as professionals you must all set an
example for the other ratings that come to stay here."
	No nods, they were leery of me now. "Which means, of course, that
you must, in all things be above reproach. Your quarters, for instance,"
and I looked at Bob the Writer, "your personal quarters must be
immaculate. No fuss, no muss."
	Bob hung his head and nodded slightly. Four heads turned and stared
at him. They didn't know what I was talking about. He did.
	"In addition, as professionals, you are all aware that we all have
our little idiosyncrasies. I am not unaware that from time to time you all
have special needs. You are all, after all, young men, and all young men
have special needs. I am also not unaware that from time to time you might
feel it necessary to satisfy those needs."
	Jason glared at Jordan, who glared at Jason. Little George blushed
and Marc seemed totally confused. Bob the Writer stiffened to the extent
that I was afraid he would do himself an injury.
	"Frankly, gentlemen, what you do does not concern me . . ." I
paused and then added sharply, "So long as you do it behind closed doors!"
	Bob the Writer opened his mouth, about to say something. I motioned
him to keep silent.
	"Let's get some work done around here, gentlemen," I said,
dismissing them.
	The office was vacated at a great rate of knots, except for Bob the
Writer, who was stuck with me.

******

	The morning passed in a maze of papers and telephone calls. The
Fitzroy Twins had grabbed their run sheets and disappeared. Marc found a
work order that required his immediate attention and he disappeared. Little
George disappeared in the direction of Linen Stores where he suddenly
discovered that he had to muster all the blankets in the place.
	Bob the Writer went about his duties. It did not take me long to
realize that he was a master of his trade, a true craftsman who loved
paperwork. He had a mind like a steel trap and knew exactly who was in what
cabin, their trade, and when they were due to leave. He knew how many
cabins were occupied, and how many vacant. The Watch and Station Bill was
up to date, each square neatly filled in. His files were as neat as any I
had ever seen. He knew exactly where each file was located in the
cabinets. He could type about sixty words a minute, without a strike over
and no erasures. If I asked him for a form it appeared as if by magic. How
the Flag Building had missed this gem was a mystery.
	Bob worked quietly, filing, typing, and, as needed, placing forms
and papers on my desk telling me quietly what they were, and what I was
expected to do with them. He was very polite and twice asked my permission
to go to the heads. At noon he asked permission to go for lunch. When he
returned he resumed his seat at his desk and carried on working.
	The afternoon was, if anything, busier. The clerks and writers in
the other buildings had been busy and the pile of paper in my In Basket
grew higher. Demands for accommodation, cancellation of accommodations,
accommodation rosters, demands for supplies to be requisitioned. Every
piece had to be logged and actioned. Little George brought in his demands
for linen. Jason and Jordan appeared at irregular intervals, picking up new
transportation orders, and usually bickering over whose turn it was to
drive. There was only one van, so one was "brains" and the other "muscle",
although I never knew which Twin was doing what! Marc came in and checked
all the light fixtures. They addressed each other by rank. They were all
polite, and very formal, with each other and with me.
	I might have been impressed if I hadn't seen Jason punch Jordan's
shoulder when they the left the office and give him a silent, nodding
grin. If they thought their little act was fooling me they didn't know me
very well.
	At 1600 Bob the Writer locked the filing cabinets and put the cover
over his typewriter. Our work day had ended. He shut the office door and
walked to my desk.
	"Um . . . PO," he began, "I, um, cleaned up the room. It won't
happen again," he gulped. "And I'm sorry for knocking over the chair. I
didn't have my glasses on." He fingered his horned rims. "I . . . um
. . . I hope I didn't wake you."
	"You didn't wake me," I lied. I looked up at him. He would not meet
my gaze. "Is there anything else?"
	"Well . . ." he hesitated, "I . . . um . . . I'll keep the door
closed." He was very embarrassed. "I won't do it again." What it was I
could imagine. Not being one to put a crimp in anybody's sex life, I leaned
back in my chair and looked directly at him.
	"Leading Seaman, you do what you have to do," I said. "I do
however, have one question."
	"PO?"
	I leaned forward, and gave him my best shit eater grin.
	"Just how big is that thing of yours?"
	"Hard or soft?" he answered without thinking. Then he covered his
face with his hands and shook his head.
	I started laughing. I laughed so hard I all but fell out of the
chair. Bob didn't know if he should shit or salute. He stood there,
grinning like a loon, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
	He opened his mouth to speak and I had another fit of laughter. I
held up my hand, and managed, to compose myself.
	"Enough already." I wiped the tears from my eyes. "Boychick, you
take the prize!" I stood up and offered my hand. "Friends?"
	He nodded. "Friends." We shook hands. Then we both started
laughing.
	When we had recovered I picked up my hat. "I'm going to the Mess. I
need a drink. Tell those Barracks Stanchions to come alongside after
supper. I'm buying the beer."

******

	Our beer bash was monumental. The Twins, Marc and Little George,
who conveniently forgot his religious fervour in favour of free Molson's
Export Ale, forgave me all my sins, and we had a hell of a good time.
	Bob the Writer proudly informed us that his dick was 9 and ¾ inches
long soft, and 12 and 1/10th inches "when it's angry". The Fitzroy Twins
offered to measure Little George, who resolutely refused to allow them
anywhere near his family jewels, and sat with his legs firmly closed. Marc
went into a snit when the Fitzroy Twins didn't ask to measure his treasure,
and when they offered to correct the oversight he sniffed and told them
that it was too late, and they could go on guessing.
	Little George, who managed to pack away more beer than a thirsty
camel, so forgot his Evangelicalism as to sing "The Harlot of Jerusalem"
(which I had taught him), and Marc passed out. The Fitzroy Twins, as
stealthy as cats, slithered over, tape measure in hand. I, however, in a
moment of ill-advised prudishness, stopped them. I told them it wouldn't
count because Marc was passed out, and unable to defend himself, and
besides, beer made your dick shrink. They pretended to believe me and
returned to their seats.
	It was a pleasant, if very wet, evening. Since I had not tied one
on since that night with Jim, I was massively hung over next morning. As
were the rest of them. None of us made it to Divisions and I don't think we
were missed.
	Despite my hangover I began the routine I would follow - more or
less - from now on. I would read through the overnight messages and
signals, read Routine Orders, listen to Bob cursing under his breath some
nameless clerk who had fucked up some piece of paper or other, and then,
clipboard in hand, go off and do my Parish Rounds.
	I walked the decks and noted any deficiencies in cleaning and the
like. I stayed well away from the permanently occupied cabins - the ratings
who lived in them didn't have all that much in the way of comfort and I
felt that I should at least respect their space - and inspected the Reserve
cabins, transient cabins, and Ankle Biter Alley, looking for damage, making
sure that the rooms were neat and clean, and so on. Unmade beds,
overflowing waste baskets, clothes left out, were all cause for a "chit",
which I would write out and leave on the offender's bed.
	Ankle Biter Alley and the Transient Quarters were given a more than
casual glance. If these spaces were a mess - and they usually were, I was
supposed to write up another chit and send it off to the Base Accommodation
Officer, who would send a report off to the offenders' home unit. I
emphasize supposed to, because no one really gave a fuck anymore.
	Unification had fucked the Services. Instead of distinctive
uniforms for each arm of the service, with their own rank and trade badges,
their own identity, we all wore the same uniforms. The customs and
traditions I had grown up with were long gone. Pride and professionalism
had been replaced by apathy and a decidedly civilian outlook when it came
to the work ethic. The work day was from 0800 to 1600, Monday to Friday,
weekends off. Except for the few offices that had to be manned 24 hours a
day, and Duty Watches on board the ships, everything shut down at
1600. Duty Watches were annoying and an inconvenience, especially on the
weekends, and especially for those who lived off base.
	At 1600 the offices would empty. At 1600 the ships tied up along
side would empty (1530 if the Officer of the Day wasn't looking), and the
exodus began. You took your life in your hands if you tried to cross
Esquimalt Road at this time, the traffic was so heavy. Nobody worked
"overtime" if they could help it. If they did, they had to be given
"compensating time off". Which meant that when the Fitzroy Twins took a
group of Officer Cadets up to the Comox Glacier for the Venture Training
phase of their course, which they did every Monday morning, they never got
back much before 2200 or 2300 and could then claim, and sometimes did, a
half day to compensate them for their "extra" time worked.
	This mind set was endemic in every branch of the Service. This was
not surprising. There were very few of the old Navy types still around. The
older hands - the vets of W.W.II and Korea - would have nothing to do with
the ruination of "their" Navy and voted with their feet. From Admirals to
career Able Seamen, they had got out as soon as the paperwork could be
completed. This left a vacuum that could not be filled. The new hands knew
nothing of the old days. Which was sad. What had been a vocation was now
just a job.
	But I digress (whine mode kicked in, sorry).
	My inspections taught me a firm lesson in just how bad things had
become. The old Navy always taught us that you left a ship or a mess
cleaner than it was when you moved in. Now the transient rooms and Sea
Cadet Quarters would be littered with the flotsam and jetsam of hasty
departures. Newspapers and magazines predominated. I also found odd socks,
a jock strap once, briefs and boxers tossed into corners and forgotten, and
skin books of every description, ranging from pussy and tits to hard core
male/female fucking. No gay skin books - nothing queer about this man's
Navy.
	I would scoop these up and take them away. The cleaning staff was
mostly older Chinese ladies who would not have appreciated the literature
being read at night.
	I sometimes wondered just what the hell the Sea Cadets and young
transients did at night - mass jerk offs was my guess, and I sometimes
wondered if the story about the "Phantom Wanker of Aurora" was true.
	HMCS Aurora was the main Sea Cadet training base on the West Coast,
and located on a spit of land jutting into Comox harbour. Rumour had it
that someone - no names, although everybody seemed to have a perpetrator in
mind - would sneak into the barracks in the dark of night and masturbate
sleeping cadets. What intrigued me was that no one admitted knowing anyone
who had been the recipient of the stranger's kindness, and no one ever
admitted actually having been given a hand job. Nice Canadian boys would
never submit to such thing! Or tell about it if they did!
	In the event, I would give the books to the Fitzroy Twins to add to
their already impressive collection of porno magazines, although I knew
that they didn't read the things. Even twins need their camouflage. They
left them strategically placed in their room on Inspection Day - which
happened once a month - to be found by the Inspecting Officer, usually the
Supply Officer, a nice old duffer who told me he always enjoyed inspecting
the Barracks because that way he could keep up in the latest trends in smut
and pornography. He also opined that if the Fitzroy Twins didn't look out
they'd end up wearing glasses.
	Most of what I found ended up in the dumpster. Articles of obvious
value - I once found a super pair of binoculars - were logged and kept
under lock and key until they were claimed. After thirty days they were up
for grabs.
	The rest of the day I spent shuffling papers and directing
traffic. At 1600 the office closed, the building filled up and emptied as
the troops went about their night routines.
	My relations with the boys became warmer as the weeks passed. After
standing around on Friday Ceremonial Divisions being demeaned and abused
(and we didn't even have to take our clothes off) by the Commanding
Officer, I told them that they had more important things to do and to skip
the whole issue. I wasn't planning on going in the near future, so why
should they? Eventually we packed in morning Divisions. We were just too
damn busy.
	Life in the Barracks was not all peace and quiet, however. On more
than one occasion the PWA flight from Vancouver was delayed, which meant
either Bob or I had to put in an appearance and handle the paperwork. One
night, two minesweepers on night exercise (what the hell they were doing in
the middle of the night is beyond me) collided, and had to be towed in for
repairs and I ended up with 60 guys, all looking for a bed. I rousted Bob
and Little George out of their beds, Bob for the paperwork, Little George
to open up Linen Stores.
	The guys from the sweeps had just started to fill the lobby when
the Fitzroy Twins decided to have a domestic in the rec. room. They were
beating the hell out of each other when I arrived (Jason had a mean left
hook). I separated them, kicked them both in the ass and sent them up top
to help Little George and Bob. When the dust settled - about 0400 - I
banished them to separate rooms - which pissed them right off. I let them
pout for three days, and then made them shake hands (a useless gesture;
they weren't mad at each other, they were mad at me) and told them they
could go back to rooming together. To teach me a lesson they pouted for
another day.
	On another occasion two courses in Halifax for Officer Cadets were
cancelled. Of course they were sent to Esquimalt. They all ended up on my
patch because the Wardroom and the Annex were full, as was HMCS Cape Scott,
the depot ship. Marc, Little George and I spent two days scrounging beds
and we ended up putting extra two-decker bunks in all the Reserve Cabins,
which pissed everybody off, the ratings because they had to bunk with
Officer Cadets, the Officer Cadets because they had to bunk with the
ratings. I told them all to lump it or sleep on the beach.
	To make matters worse, that summer was the hottest in years. The
sun beat down on the flat roof of the Barracks and the place was an
oven. When the hands weren't moaning and dripping about their
accommodations, they whined about the heat. There wasn't much anyone could
do about it. The place wasn't air conditioned and the Navy sure as hell
wasn't about to put any in. I managed to scrounge two old units from one of
Joel's cousins, and it cost me three 40-pounders of rum to have them
installed by the Chippy-Chaps (Shipwrights) in the rec. room. Which meant
that it became a substitute for the cabins everyone was supposed to sleep
in.
	Every night it seemed that half the Barracks was down there dossing
down on the leatherette sofas or on mattresses they had taken from their
rooms. The rec. room was a hell of a lot cooler than the cabins up top, but
still there was grumbling and it did not help matters when the Twins
appointed themselves walking wake-up calls, which ended when Jordan poked
Harry the Farmer in the balls with an iron marlin spike. Harry the Farmer,
a huge, muscular boy from Manitoba, was one of those people whom it was
almost impossible to wake up. He never heard the pipe, and if anyone tried
to shake him he would come up swinging. Anyway, he did not take kindly
having his balls so assaulted, woke up with a roar, and, clad only in his
white cotton briefs, and swearing vengeance, chased the Twins out of the
Barracks and across the Upper Parade Square. Unfortunately there was a huge
Sea Cadet parade being formed up at the time . . . More paperwork and a
stern lecture to all hands.
	I dug into my savings and paid through the nose for two window
units, an additional one for the bedroom and one for the office. At least
Bob and I could sleep and work in comfort. This, of course, caused much
grumbling from the Fitzroy Twins, both permanently barred from sleeping in
the rec. room, and when Little George and Marc started whining I told them
all they could kip in the living room if their cabins got too hot. They
wasted no time in taking me up on my offer.
	The little bastards practically moved in. The Twins discovered that
the sofa could be converted into a bed, and slept there, while Little
George and Marc found some old roll-up cots. The place looked like a flop
house for most of the summer.
	Most weekends everybody took off for cooler climes. Marge had
wangled a transfer to the Recruiting Office in Vancouver and was living
full time with Butch, so I had a ready excuse to go over to the mainland,
and I did go a couple of times, when Joel was in town. Most weekends I just
stayed in and enjoyed the solitude.
	In a way I was glad to see the tail end of the lads. Bob slept in
the nude (he had a great tan and no tan lines) and invariably woke up with
an erection. The other four thought nothing of lounging around the place in
their underwear, not to mention that when I shook them awake in the morning
at least one, and on occasion, all four were standing tall. Then I had to
listen to them bitch while waiting to take their turn in the bathroom. It
was all very stressful.
	Thinking about it now, it was as if each of the boys had been
hand-picked by The Manning Office just for me. Little George, Jason and
Jordan, were, I knew from past sightings in the training ship,
circumcised. The Twins were identical in every respect, and each had had
just a hint of a ridge of skin under their pink mushrooms. Both had very
tasty looking low-hanging testicles, which were, to be honest, a bit on the
small side).
	Little George was smooth from base to knob with a surprisingly
well-defined circumcision ring. He too had a very nice set of testicles -
not huge for his overall size, not too small - just about right, I thought.
	At first I could only wonder if Marc was a brother of the
ring. They all lived, and showered on the second deck and there was no
legitimate reason for me to be lurking about the washplace to check him
out.  Fortunately for my reputation he put in for a two day pass and filled
out a Next of Kin form. This was something we all had to do whenever we
went on leave. The Navy wanted to be able to send a Chaplain of the right
denomination to your folks if you OD'd or drove into a tree or
something. It turned out that Marc was Jewish. There was a God.
	Needless to say, they drove me crazy. Like just about everyone
else, they wore tight cotton briefs under their pants, which gave each of
them a nice, compact basket, and, when they bent over, compacted their
butts into glorious twin orbs.
	Like everyone else they hated the green uniforms we were forced
wear, and lost no time in changing. This usually meant shorts or cut-offs,
and T-shirts, with or without sleeves. Since they had the run of my
quarters, they usually ended up there most nights, watching television and
drinking my beer - evilly I kept the fridge full. They would lie around, on
the furniture, on the floor, arms and legs akimbo. Sometimes they kept
their tees on, more often than not they went bare-chested. Only Marc had
hair on his chest, not much but dark and lightly spread across his
pecs. He, along with Little George, had treasure trails of hair extending
beyond the waistbands of their shorts, spiralling upward toward their
navels. The Fitzroy Twins had no hair on their chests, and fine, black fuzz
on their arms and legs.
	They would all laze around, drinking beer, and chucking shit at
each other. They would talk queer, especially when Bob the Writer was
around. He normally wore oversize boxers which, on the whole, covered his
prize dick - except when he stretched, or sat down, usually with his legs
spread. Everything would fall out, or the fabric would ride up, exposing a
good portion of his penis, and all of his testicles. He had, I admit, a
very good body, well muscled, and very firm. The other boys would admire
his chest and ass, and compliment him on the size of his balls. He grumbled
privately about it, but I sure as hell don't recall him running away, or
putting on long pants.
	Little George and Marc usually wore sport type shorts, the ones
with the built in support. These showed off their baskets, their smooth,
oval balls, pink under the white nylon fabric, with tiny dark hairs curling
out from the leg bands.
	The Fitzroy Twins wore plain, run of the mill, white cotton gym
shorts, which were part of their kit issue. They had no tan lines - they
lived in the sun and every lunch hour they would sunbathe on the flat
roof. They very rarely wore underpants. When they did, they both wore
briefs of the same color, blue, white, and once, fire engine red. More
often than not they wore nothing under their shorts. When they sat down and
spread their legs, which seemed to be their favourite position, their
genitals were on full view, each set encased in fine, black, curly pubic
hair. As I have said, they were circumcised, with their darkish rings
clearly visible. Their dicks were identical, both of them were the same
length and thickness, with smooth, mushroom helmets ringed with a
tantalizing ridge of skin. Their ball sacs were smooth and hung low, well
below their dick heads.
	The Twins were not at all embarrassed. Quite the contrary. They
were deliberately teasing the rest of us - all of whom they thought were
straight. Titillating and teasing a straight was a game for them, a game
they could only play with people they trusted. Little George and Marc
seemed indifferent, and usually tossed ice cubes at whatever offending
penis was in view. Bob the Writer, who in his own way was just as much an
exhibitionist as the Twins, pretended not to notice. When he did, and the
Twins saw him glancing down at their crotches - and they always caught him
- they would grin broadly. Bob would blush deeply and the Twins knew they
had won another round in the game. Guy stuff.
	The only fully clothed person in the place was myself! I kept my
T-shirt and baggy old shorts firmly on and always wore boxers. I kept my
dick firmly in my pants.
	Most nights we would laze around talking and, usually, watching
some sport on TV, swearing at the refs or umpires, armchair quarterbacking,
and drinking beer. Some nights we played cards, arguing and swearing at
each other and the cards.
	No harm meant, no harm done. Guy stuff.

******

	With the end of August came peace, quiet, and a return to
normalcy. The Reserves went home. The Sea Cadets went home. The Officer
Cadets, finally, went home. The Barracks was half empty and would remain
that way until the next training season in April.
	As my release date approached I began to make plans for my new life
in the real world. Joel came over from Vancouver, talked me into investing
some of my money in the firm he worked for, and persuaded me to come and
stay in California for a while. There was nothing waiting for me back in
Ontario, so I agreed.

******

	The seasons turned, barely noticed. A little more rain, a little
less sun. Before I knew it December rolled around. Time for me to swallow
the anchor.
	On December 22nd I spent the day doing my Out Routine. I had signed
everything that had to be signed. My kit was returned, my final pay in my
pocket. My plane ticket was bought. My bags were almost packed. Tomorrow I
would close one chapter in my life and begin a new one.
	The Barracks were eerily quiet. It was Christmas Leave time and
everyone who could had wangled leave to go home. Bob the Writer had been
gone for two days - home to Calgary. I had the rooms to myself. I undressed
and threw the green uniform in the trash basket. I wanted no reminders of
the CAF.
	I puttered about in my boxers and socks, finishing my packing,
leaving a note for the guy who would move in after the New Year. With
nothing else to do I settled back with a beer and watched some TV. I had
another beer, turned the dial on the TV and found a Christmas Show, all
carols and choir boys. I turned the volume down low, and was nestled into
my chair for a quiet night in when there was a light tap and the door
opened. It was the Fitzroy Twins. They walked across the room and stood in
front of me, two good looking bare chested beach boys in shorts.
	"We've come . . ." began Jordan.
	"To say goodbye," finished Jason.
	"We have . . ." said Jordan.
	"Two gifts," finished Jason.
	"Gifts? What kind of gifts?" I replied, intrigued.
	Jordan pointed at Jason. Jason pointed at Jordan.
	"Us."
	They dropped their shorts. I hoped this wasn't a joke. It wasn't.
	Jason dropped to his knees in front of me and spread my legs, Jason
moved to the side of the chair and leaned over. We kissed hungrily while
Jason reached in and pulled my rising cock through the slit in my
boxers. He felt the base of my dick and massaged my balls, then reached up
and pulled on the boxers. I raised my hips and he pulled them down and off.
	I felt his warm mouth kissing the tip of my penis, and then
engulfing it, and sliding slowly down. My dick began to throb as Jason deep
throated me. Jordan began to massage my chest, then rubbed my hardened
nipples. I reached down and began to rub the back of Jason's head, feeling
the hard bristles at the back, then the longer, silky hair on the top. With
my other hand I reached over and took Jordan's dick in my hand. It was rock
hard, and it jumped a little when I touched it. I stroked him and then made
a fist just under the head. I massaged it with my thumb. He began to ooze
precum and I gently massaged his mushroom. Around, under, over, just a
slow, gentle rub. He began to lick my chest and nipples, moved up and
buried his face in my neck, sucking and kissing.
	Jason was an expert. He sucked and licked up and down my shaft and
over its head. I could feel the cum starting to boil in my balls. I was
nearing an explosion and warned Jason. His lips tightened around my dick
head and he began to suck in quick, sharp movements with his moist, warm
mouth. I lubed my thumb with a new supply of Jordan's precum and quickened
my rubbing. His head was buried in my neck and he started to moan softly,
his breath coming in short, quick, gasps. His hips gave a short, quick
thrust, then another. I kept my hand firmly under the head of his dick and
rubbed harder. Another thrust and a blast of cum shot forward from his piss
hole and landed on my chest. He made small, mewing noises as his dick
pulsed again and again. More cum blew from his dick and dribbled down the
front of my hand.
	As Jordan began shooting I lost all control and exploded. Jason
sucked eagerly as I pumped wad after wad into his mouth. The feeling was
indescribably wonderful as he sucked and sucked, taking every drop I
had. He continued to suck and lick me as my dick softened. Jordan lay on my
chest, breathing heavily, his lips buried in my neck. Finally he stood up
and stared at me.
	I stared back, raised my hand, and slowly licked his cum from my
fingers. He reached over and caressed my face. He smiled gently, then
leaned over and kissed me, his tongue tasting his own cum and my saliva. I
pushed him gently away and sat up.
	Jason was sitting back on his heels. He was still hard, his
pink-tipped dick pointing upward. I leaned forward and pulled him to his
feet. I fingered his dick, rubbing my fingers down the shaft, and felt his
balls. Then I leaned forward and took him in my mouth.
	His dick was just the right size for sucking. I moved my mouth down
his shaft and buried my nose in the hair at the base of his cock. He
smelled clean and fresh, with just a hint of talcum powder. His dick tasted
even better. He began to move his hips and his rod slid smoothly in and
out. I put my hand on his hips and stopped him. I wanted to suck him
off. He stood there while I massaged his balls and licked him. I tongued
the underside of his cock, from the base of the head down to his balls. I
took one, then the other, then both of his balls in my mouth, sucking
eagerly. His dick bounced gently. I returned to sucking him and fondling
his balls, which tightened rapidly. He was breathing through clenched
teeth, sharp, wet sounds. My mouth felt his dick thicken. I let go of his
balls and concentrated on his mushroom. He pushed forward and grunted, and
his cum began shooting down my throat. I sucked harder and more and more
cum gushed out. I sucked and swallowed every drop of ambrosia he could give
me.
	I had been so engrossed in sucking Jason I hadn't noticed that
Jordan had moved behind his brother and placed his once again hard dick in
Jason's butt crack. He rubbed his dick against Jason's ass, pumping slowly
at first, then quicker as Jason began to reach his climax. Jordan had his
hands on Jason's shoulders and matched his pace with my sucking. Within
seconds of Jason's cumming, Jordan blew another load onto his brother's
back.
	Jason leaned forward and rubbed my back and neck as I sucked him
clean. He reached around and felt Jordan's dick, then wiped the cum from
his back. He straightened a little and rubbed Jordan's cum on my lips. We
kissed, exchanging cum and spit.
	We drew apart and then Jason sat between my legs, his head on my
thigh, his hand stroking my still tight ball sac. Jordan sat on the arm of
the chair, put an arm around my shoulder, and nuzzled my neck. I reached
over and held his balls and cock in my hand. They were still heated from
our sex.
	"You like this," said Jordan firmly. His tongue licked my ear and
he held his head close to mine.
	"You like it a lot." said Jason. He kissed my mushroom and tongued
my piss hole.
	"We could tell."  Jordan rubbed my nipples. "We can always tell."
	"You can?"
	"Yes." said Jordan. He sat back and looked at me. "We knew you
liked us." He shrugged. "We liked you, but we had to be careful."
	"I understand." I said slowly. "Boy, do I understand."
	"Good," said Jason. "Now we can make up for lost time." He leaned
down and took my dick in his mouth. Jordan lowered his head and began
sucking my chest.
	Suddenly the door opened and Little George and Marc were in the
room. Jason, Jordan and I jerked up our heads and stared at them staring at
us.
	"Oh fuck." I muttered.
	Little George looked at Marc, then looked at us. Together they
unbuttoned their shorts and let them fall down around their ankles. "Party
Time." Little George grinned.

******

	"Party time?" I gasped, scarcely believing my eyes as I watched
both Marc and Little George strip down to their underpants, Little George
wearing tighty-whiteys and Marc standard issued boxers.
	"Sure," replied Little George as he reached into his briefs and
adjusted what was becoming a burgeoning erection. He grinned wickedly at
me.
	Not quite believing what I heard, I began sputtering. "But George
. . . you're straight! You go to church! You have a girlfriend! You're
saving yourself for marriage!" The lascivious look on Little George's face
was complimented by eyebrow waggling. I couldn't believe it, and added,
"You're a virgin!"
	Little George cackled. "Not since the night of your beer bash." He
looked at Marc, who blushed redly.
	"Sonofabitch!" snapped Jordan. He glared at Marc. "You seduced
him!"
	"Took advantage of a drunken sailor!" added Jason.
	"Did not!" returned Marc angrily. Then he smiled shyly at Little
George. "Other way around if you want to know the truth."
	"We do!" growled Jordan. Then he looked daggers at Little
George. "You wouldn't let us touch you!" he accused.
	"You were too eager," returned Little George flatly. "I like to be
wooed!"
	I broke out laughing. "Wooed? You like to be wooed?"
	Little George grinned widely. "Sure." He regarded the Fitzroy Twins
a moment. "They were always after my ring, trying to catch me in the
shower, always lookin' up the leg of my shorts!"
	"Small potatoes and few in the hill if you ask me," sniffed Jordan,
miffed that Marc had scored first.
	"Nobody did!" returned Jason, giving his twin a sharp jab in the
ribs. He wanted to do much more than look up the legs of Little George's
shorts!
	Little George did not reply at once. He slowly lowered the front of
his tightys, revealing a thick, straight, circumcised penis crowned by a
firm, sleek head. "Small? Potatoes?" he grinned as his penis bounced
seductively as he flexed his butt muscles.
	"Oh, Jesus!" moaned Jason.
	"Maaaan!" gasped Jason, licking his lips.
	As I watched Little George tantalise the Fitzroy Twins, Marc
lowered his boxers, stepped out of them, and kicked them aside. Being
Jewish, he presented a neatly circumcised penis to all and sundry. What
intrigued me was that Marc's dick, while it also came straight out from his
body, like Little George's, the last inch or two (above his circumcision
ring) curved upward towards the ceiling. There was nothing wrong with it,
just started to slightly curve upward a little. I couldn't help but think
this was kind of cute.
	More moans came from the Fitzroys, and I knew it was all they could
do not to leap on the two men. Marc did not help at all. He moved to stand
beside Little George and began fondling him. His hand slowly squeezed
Little George's erection and a small crystal drop appeared over the pee
slit of Little George's crisp, ridged glans.
	The Fitzroy Twins moaned in unison. Then, as I watched, mesmerized,
they uncoiled themselves and walked over to Marc and Little George. Marc
began tonguing Jordan, and Jason knelt before Little George, taking his
penis in his mouth. Little George shivered as Jason began to worship his
dick. Marc said something to Jordan, who nodded. He turned from Marc and
stood behind Little George. He began to massage Little George's back, his
hands moving down, kneading Little George's hard, compact cheeks. Jordan
knelt down, spread Little George's cheeks, and began to rim his glory hole,
his tongue darting in and out, around the little brown hole, and back in
again. Little George arched his back and thrust his hips forward, pushing
his dick deeper into Jason's mouth. His arms and hands began to quake as
the ecstasy of pleasure coursed through him.
	Marc came silently to my chair, climbed up and sat on my stomach,
my now hot, stiff dick throbbing against his butt crack. He leaned forward
and began to rub my chest. I rubbed his waist and stroked his butt. I
reached down and felt his hard-on. It was not bad at all, about five inches
of hard meat, and thick. Three quarters of it was a light tan, the balance,
from his circumcision ring to his glans, was a pleasant, rosy pink. A
treasure trail of dark brown hair curled down from his navel to the base of
his raging cock.
	I fondled his loose ball sac, and then, with my other hand, began
to stroke and pump him. He raised his hips and guided my helmet toward his
tight hole. I felt my knob being guided in. I pushed gently, and half my
dick was in the moist, warm cavity. Marc grimaced briefly, relaxed his
muscles, and pushed back, taking every inch of me. I felt my pubic hairs
against his ass.
	My dick pushed through his sphincter with a soft thrust. Marc, his
eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, began to move his hips up and
down. He tightened, then loosed his muscles. Every nerve ending on my dick
started exploding. The pleasure I was feeling was close to unbearable. I
didn't want to cum, I couldn't cum, because I knew if I did I would be out
for the night. As Marc was on an up stroke I reached down and pulled his
hips forward. My dick pulled out and Marc moved up until his sweet
circumcised dick touched my lips. I bent my head forward.
	My mouth consumed that beautiful, compact dick. I licked his knob,
and ran my tongue down the underside of his dick, my spit lubing the
pulsing vein. With one hand I reached around and slowly inserted a finger
into his hole, massaging the soft, wet, flesh within. Marc groaned softly
and I moved my mouth up and down his shaft. I moved my finger in time with
my sucking mouth. With my free hand I reached down and rubbed and rolled
his tight, large balls. I could feel him tightening and thickening, so I
moved my mouth upward, just above his cut line, tonguing his head and
sucking his shaft.
	As he grew close Marc's body began to convulse. He threw his head
back, moaning. "Fuck . . . Oh God . . . Suck it . . . oh fuck . . . OH
FUCK". His creamy nectar shot into my mouth. I swallowed gust after gust of
thick, creamy Marc cum. His dick and balls pumped load after load into me,
and I swallowed as quickly as I could, taking all he could produce. When he
was finished his dick continued to spasm with pleasure as I cleaned and
sucked his mushroom. He collapsed on me, groaning, his body aglow with sex.
	Little George began to climax, groaning and moaning. He thrust his
hips forward and grunted loudly. I saw Jordan's cheeks move in and out,
then his Adam's apple began bobbing, as he swallowed Little George's dick
juice. Little George bent forward, his mouth on Jordan's back, kissing it
and moaning. His hips thrust sharply as jets of cum assaulted Jordan's
throat. When he was finished, Little George collapsed on the floor, lying
on his back, breathing heavily.
	Jordan dropped to his knees and moved closer to Jason, their dicks,
hard, crimson with sex, touched. They began to kiss one another, hips
grinding, their hands moving slowly along each others body. The rubbed and
stroked each other's dicks. Jordan reached down and began to rub Jason's
butt cheeks, pushing their bodies closer. Jason did the same, and almost
immediately they came, gouts of the spooge shooting up and over their dick
heads. Their bodies slowly sank to the floor, and they lay there, hips
moving gently as they lotioned their bodies with their mingled cum.
	Marc left me and lay down beside Little George. He propped himself
on one elbow and with his free hand began to stroke and fondle Little
George's soft dick. Little George, his eyes closed, began to squirm in
pleasure. He moaned softy as Marc's hand stroked his dick to rigidness.
	Jason rolled away from Jordan and crab-crawled over to where Little
George and Marc lay. He pushed his head between the two boys and took
Marc's semi-erect penis into his mouth. Marc moved his body slightly,
giving Jason full access to his now fully stiffened dick. He leaned down
and took Little George's hard-on into his mouth, sucking it with noisy, wet
sounds. With one hand Jason cupped and squeezed Marc's balls. With the
other he began jerking himself.
	For a moment I thought Jordan would join the other three boys. He
glanced at them, stood up , walked to my chair, and pulled me up. We sank
to the floor, our tongues intertwined, our hands exploring each others
body.
	It was going to be a long night.

******

	When I awoke the sun was just peeking over the horizon. My whole
body ached. I was lying on the floor, with Little George's head resting
against my shoulder, lying on his side, his arm across my chest, one leg
bent across mine, his body warm and soft against me. We had finished the
night together, in the classic 69 position. I tasted his cum in my mouth
still. I reached down and felt his soft, smooth cock. His balls contracted
a little. His dick and balls, the taste of his cum, would stay with me for
along time.
	Moving Little George gently aside, I sat up and saw that Marc was
sandwiched between the Twins. Jason's hand rested over Marc's balls, while
Jordan's held Marc's soft dick, the head, a healthy pink, soft in his hand.
	The scene before me and beside me gave promise of a long day - if I
let it go on. Of course, I couldn't. I had a plane to catch. But there was
still a little time left.
	I lay down again and began to feel Little George's perfect, peach
fuzzed cheeks. Gently I kissed and sucked his orbs, moving slowly toward
his puckered brown little hole. Little George stirred and gently pushed his
ass back and into my face. I nuzzled his hole, rimming and licking,
thrusting my tongue into his hot and eager boy hole. I spread his cheeks
and my tongue darted in an out, tasting the wet, moist flesh inside.
	Little George began to moan and groan, overcome with pleasure. His
ass began twitching and he moved his hips in time with my tongue fuck. I
threw my arm over his hips and found his dick, thick, hot, pumping out
precum. I oiled his head and shaft and pumped him. He began to groan
louder.
	I was so engrossed in what I was doing I almost didn't hear the
other moans and groans coming from the other side of the room. I glanced
backward.
	Marc was standing up, his body slightly bent as Jason fucked his
perfect butt. Jordan was on his knees, his mouth on Marc's raging hard-on,
his hand on his own boner, jerking his beautiful, rosy boy meat. Each boy
had fallen into the same rhythm, Jason fucking Marc's ass, Marc fucking
Jordan's face, Jordan beating his meat. It looked like a well choreographed
ballet.
	I rolled Little George on his back. His dick stuck up at an angle,
the skin above his ring dark red, his bulbous head covered in precum that
seeped from his piss hole. I kissed and sucked his groin, which set him to
moaning and twitching, then moved on to his perfect balls. I took both of
them in my mouth, sucking and tonguing them, my nose buried in the base of
his wonderfully smelling cock. Leaving his balls I licked my way up to his
cock head and took it in my mouth. My lips tightened around Little George's
sweet, smooth, hard dick. I closed my eyes, tasting him, my taste buds
roaring with the flavour of him.
	Little George ran his hand through my hair and then pushed my head
forward. I had every inch of him in my mouth. Jesus, God, did I love
sucking his dick. With my tongue I massaged his mushroom and I began
bobbing my head up and down. I reached down and slipped two fingers into
his chute, rubbing slowly and gently on his prostate. Little George yelped
and I swear came close to fainting. This apparently was the first time his
gland had been stimulated and he seemed almost overwhelmed from the
pleasure flashing through his body. He jerked near-maniacally and I felt
his balls tighten against my chin.
	"Oh, suck . . . suck it . . . oh fucking . . . Christ suck that
. . ." Little George began his cum ritual. His hips began thrusting and I
increased the pace of my finger fucking to match his thrusts. I loosened my
lip lock on his dick and let him fuck my face. I felt his knob banging
against the back of my throat, and swallowed the precum gushing from his
dick.
	"Fuck . . . it's . . . Oh fuck . . ." Little George yelled. He
thrust violently and his cock exploded, salvo after salvo of sweet boy cum
smashing down my throat. I swallowed every drop, sucking madly as his dick
twitched and jerked.
	I continued to suck him as I reached down and took my dick in my
hand. I was so hot I came in about six strokes, creaming the carpet,
spreading cum over my stomach. I blasted and sucked Little George into
whimpering post-cum pleasure.
	I heard Marc groan loudly and then Jason let out a yelp as he
slammed into Marc's ass. Jordan was a second later, moaning loudly as Marc
flooded him with his cum and his own dick pulsed out a massive load.  The
three boys collapsed in a heap of sweat and cum. I released Little George
and we lay for a few minutes in each other's arms, serenely happy.
	After a few minutes we all drew apart. The room was ripe with semen
and sweat. I opened the window to air the place out, while the boys cleaned
up the more obvious stains.
	We all crowded into the shower, spending a pleasant half hour
washing each other's bodies, sucking and jerking the semis we each had. As
we watched, Jordan dropped and sucked on Jason's dick, getting him off in
what seemed like a minute.
	Although I loved what we were doing I finally called a halt to the
tomfoolery. We got out of the shower and the boys reluctantly found their
shorts and got dressed.
	As they moved toward the door Jason kissed me lightly on the lips
Jordan gave at me a full-bore lip kiss. Marc traced the outline of my chin,
lifted it and kissed me softly. Little George hugged me tightly.
	"I'll never forget what we did. Never" he whispered. "I don't want
to go."
	"You have to." I said, pushing him gently away.
	Little George followed the other boys from the room.
	I showered again, dressed, and checked out the room. It still
smelled of cum and males. I opened every window, picked up my bags, and
left.
	I stood on the broad steps, waiting for a taxi when they straggled
out. Jason, Jordan, Little George and Marc, changed now into long pants,
and white tees with blue banding. They stood in a circle around me.
	"You guys should be in bed," I said. "You had a long night."
	Little George shook his head. "We came to say good bye"
	Jason nodded. "And to say thanks."
	Before I could ask, Marc supplied the answer to my unspoken
question. "You helped us find our real selves, " he said. "Jason and
Jordan, they always knew what they were. Me and Little George, we were just
fuckin' around before. Now we know it's different."
	"It's hard, Marc. Trust me, I know." I replied. I waved my arm
around, indicating the sprawling base. "This place makes it worse. The Navy
makes it worse."
	"The Navy isn't everything." replied Little George. Marc nodded and
put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to
me. It was his release form.
	"When did this happen?" I asked, handing it back.
	"Last month, when I realized that I wanted to be with Little
George." said Marc. He turned and smiled at his lover.
	"You green-sheeted, then?" I asked Little George. As a Reserve, he
had only to request termination of his Class "C" billet by signing a green
form. In doing so he had effectively ended his Naval career.
	Little George nodded. "Marc and me, we're going home for
Christmas. Then to Toronto. I've already been accepted by U of T. Marc has
a place at Ryerson Poly."
	I nodded my chin at the Twins. "And you two skates?"
	"Home today . . ." said Jason
	"For Christmas . . ." continued Jordan.
	"Then UBC . . ." said Jason.
	"Pre-law . . ." ended Jordan.
	My cab drew up and I shook hands with them. "I'd like to hug you
guys, but . . ." I looked at the facade of the Barracks. " . . .too many
eyes."
	They nodded and Marc handed me a large envelope I had not noticed
before.
	"A going away gift. Don't open it until you get to where you're
going." he instructed.
	"Promise?" asked Jordan.
	I promised, tucked the envelope in the side panel of my carryon
bag, and got into the cab. As the cab moved down Esquimalt Road I saw them
waving good-bye. I imagined I could smell the difference of each of them. I
looked away, believing I would never see any of them again.

******

	On the flight to LA I pondered the last words of the boys. Had I
really made such a difference in their lives? Was my leaving going to make
a difference, really? Was I doing the right thing?
	As these questions raced through my mind I stared out the window of
the aircraft, my fingers idly playing with what I thought was a bookmark
tucked into the pages of the paperback novel I had bought before
boarding. I paid it no mind, it was, after all, only a book mark, but my
fingers finally communicated to my brain that it was not. What I found was
not an oblong, thin piece of cardboard advertising the airport bookstore,
but a square piece of fine linen bond. On it, in bold, black, Spenserian
script, was written: "Sometimes reform is best achieved from within."
	I stared at the words, wondering what they mean to me. I stared at
the card, wondering how it had come to be in a book so recently
purchased. How had it got there? More importantly, who had put it there?
	These questions remained unanswered. The words, however, struck a
chord, and suddenly my resolve to walk away began to dissolve.

******

	Joel met my plane and we drove into the hills above Brentwood where
he had his house. He showed me to my room and I began to unpack. I
remembered the envelope, took it out of the carryon and opened it.
	There were two 8 x 10 color pictures. One was a shot of the four
boys, wearing shorts and tees, standing in front of the Barracks, smiling
broadly, their arms around each other's shoulders. A picture to be found in
countless albums across the continent.
	The second picture, also full color, had been taken somewhere
inside a room. Against a light blue background were four figures, viewed
only from the neck to the knees. They were all slim, and trim. Two with
bronze, swimmers bodies, two with strong, athletic bodies. All were
circumcised, each dick a near replica of the other. Two were identical in
length, with just a hint of a ridge of skin under the pink mushrooms. One
had a surprisingly well-defined circumcision ring. The fourth was a light
tan with a thin rosy pink band between the cut line and pleasant, rosy pink
helmet. Two had a treasure trail of dark brown hair curling downward from
the navel to the crotch. All had low hanging balls, although two sets were
a bit on the small side.
	On the back of the photo was a neatly printed message . . . To
remember . .

******

	As Joel chattered away on the drive to Malibu, my fingers rimmed
the card. Two phrases echoed through my mind: "Sometimes reform is best
achieved from within." "To Remember."
	What did they mean? Was I doing the right thing?
	I needed to think, I needed to consider -- no, reconsider - the
path I would walk from now on.
	I would lie on the beach for a little while . . . and think.


The End