Date: Fri, 11 Nov 2016 16:43:52 +0100
From: James Rozo <jrozonavydod@gmx.com>
Subject: USS Independence CV62 Chapter 1
USS Independence CV62
By Ensign James Rozo, USN
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Author's Notes: Homosexuality, although officially illegal, was generally
accepted as just boys being boys so long as the participants were
discreet. Flaming effeminate sailors, although exceedingly popular, did not
serve for long. Moreover, officers were often relieved due to inappropriate
relationships, poor judgment, or loss of confidence to provide effective
leadership.
With great risks, however, come great opportunity and rewards - the
unmitigated pleasure of sailing the high seas with shipmates & brothers,
rascals & rogues, kindred souls, and secret lovers.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Chapter 1 : An Officer's Boy
"I can imagine no more rewarding a career. And any man who may be asked
in this century what he did to make his life worthwhile, I think can
respond with a good deal of pride and satisfaction: `I served in the United
States Navy.'" ~ President John F. Kennedy, 1 August 1963, Bancroft Hall,
U.S. Naval Academy ~
The match ignites.
Nourished by the accelerant, floating on gossamer wings, the elemental
force races across the deck and up the bulkhead... devouring
everything. Lurking in the shadows, sporting an erection in his bellbottom
trousers, an enthralled sailor watches as the violence transforms into
ethereal beauty.
Five minutes later the 1MC general announcing system comes alive with
the rapid ringing of the ship's bell. Below decks in engineering officer's
country, stateroom 3-146-0-L, HT3 Bepler on his knees, hesitates and looks
up at Ensign Rozo with questioning eyes.
"Keep sucking Bepler. I'm close," the young officer orders.
1MC: `This is not a drill: fire, fire, fire, class alpha fire in
compartment 03-231-1-L, away the Inport Fire Party... respond from repair
locker 7-alpha. Rescue & Assistance Detail now muster in Hanger Bay 1 with
the command duty officer. This is not a drill.'
USS Independence CV62, a 23-year-old Forestall class aircraft carrier
1,046 feet long displacing 79,300 tons at full load, is berthed at Norfolk
Naval Shipyard, Portsmouth Virginia, west slip three on the southern branch
of the Elizabeth River, completing a 5-month, $160 million dollar repair
availability.
"Take more," Ensign Rozo commands, holding the sailor's wavy chestnut
brown hair.
The officer instinctively thrust into the enlisted throat while
visualizing the fire's location: an air wing compartment - VF14, VF32,
VA87... who knows which squadron. Fucking airdales. It's a love-hate
relationship between black shoes (ship's force) and brown shoes (air wing).
Mostly hate.
The Air Wing, however, isn't embarked, so the squadron compartments are
vacant.
Mentally reviewing the evening's hot-work chits for industrial activity,
the officer concludes nothing is authorized in the vicinity. The suspicious
fire, third one this month, must be the handiwork of another malcontent
sailor.
"Awk... ugh," Bepler chokes incomprehensibly.
The Ensign is brought back to the present and immediate mission -
feeding Bepler.
The care and welfare of enlisted men is always an officer's first
obligation. The Navy takes care of its own. Forcing his way deeper inside
the throat, taking refuge as is his right, the officer smiles down upon the
compliant young sailor.
Willingly accepting the domination, Bepler's constricted gear, straining
well-worn bellbottom dungarees, conveys his excitement at providing
service.
The sizable enlisted package, prominently displayed, begs for attention.
"Mmmm...," he moans, as Ensign Rozo applies pressure with his
black-leather steel-toed boon dockers. Having his defenseless balls under
the officer's control excites him. Bepler understands that as military
property his body belongs to the Navy for the next four years.
Obstructing the flow of oxygen, stretching the silky-smooth throat walls
with his girth, obscenely protruding in the sailor's neck, the officer's
cockhead is clearly discernible. Reaching around, softly strangling the
boy, the convulsing throat instinctively squeezes the thick shaft.
"Oh yeah, choke on it sailor."
Like peanut butter and jelly, or salt and pepper, officer cock and
enlisted throat share an entwined destiny. The symbiotic relationship, an
evolutionary adaptation in the challenging nautical environment, benefits
all seafarers. Who can question nature's grand design?
"You're an exceptional cocksucker," the officer whispers in the sailor's
ear.
Fully housed down the throat, securing the airway, Rozo feels wonderful.
Bepler, not as much.
The sailor's eyes slowly rollup... he's close to blacking out. Turning
an attractive shade of light Mediterranean-blue, the boy's pigment takes on
a hauntingly beautiful luminescent quality reminiscent of the pristine
waters surrounding Crete.
"Here's your meal, Bepler. Enjoy."
Intoxicated by the power bestowed upon him by his commission, the
officer feeds the sailor as Congress undoubtedly intended. Withdrawing
several inches, the swollen gland vacates the sailor's protesting throat
with an audible pop. Adrenaline surges and the Ensign delivers his generous
gift, flooding Bepler with delicious Navy jam.
"Take it... swallow it all."
Naturally submissive, the sailor obeys the lawful order.
The delicacy, creamy and decadent, is an amalgamation of sophisticated
flavors containing subtle bitter, sweet, and salty notes. Rozo smiles with
satisfaction as Bepler frantically swallows, greedily consuming the
luxurious custard - the nutrients sliding down his parched enlisted throat.
"That's a good boy."
Extracting himself, Ensign Rozo discharges several ropes of jam on
Bepler's face and hair - marking his territory and reinforcing the sailor's
subservient position in the military hierarchy.
In the Navy, rank is everything.
And life as an officer is sweet; for an enlisted sailor, not so much.
Sailors have a saying: `I love the fucking Navy and the Navy loves
fucking me!' It captures the full flavor of the total naval
experience. Enlisted men expect to be screwed over by officers and the
system, and generally, their expectations are met... and often exceeded.
"That was amazing. I almost extinguished your lights."
Pulling up his cotton khaki trousers, playfully smacking the dazed
sailor's smooth face, focusing the boy's attention, the Ensign patiently
awaits for the obligatory post-feeding gratitude.
"Thank you for allowing me the privilege of servicing you, sir."
"You're welcome Bepler."
Ensign James Rozo, `JR' to his peers, commissioned via the NROTC program
at Cornell University Ithaca NY, reported aboard Independence eleven months
ago. The progeny of successful professionals, educated in a prestigious
boy's boarding school, he's deeply immersed in upper-class
privilege. Skipping grades, nineteen years old but looking fifteen, the
sailors refer to him as `Junior'.
Assigned to the 625 man Engineering Department as Repair Division
Officer and Ship's Fire Marshal, Ensign Rozo provides technical and
administrative supervision for 110 Hull Maintenance Technicians (HT) and a
240 man ship-wide fire party organization.
"Let's go... we have a fire to fight."
Grabbing his blue command ball cap embroidered with the ship's name - a
tradition since 1869, the Ensign shoves the sailor out of the stateroom and
they sprint off to damage control repair locker 7-alpha.
Navigating a labyrinth of passageways, they head athwartship on the
third deck, up the port inclined ladder to the second deck, and aft towards
the stern - approximately 46 frames, 184 feet through quick-acting
watertight doors, past Officer Wardroom 1, and onto the crew's aft mess
decks.
"Head outboard, Bepler... let's take the escalator."
Forestall class carriers, designed and built in the 1950s, were the
first post-World War II super-carriers. Incorporating high tonnage, an
angled flight deck, steam catapults, and deck-edge elevators, the ships
were also designed with two portside escalators from the second deck to the
03 level, one forward and one aft.
The aft escalator services squadron ready rooms 7 and 8, located at
2-167-4-L and 2-175-4-L respectively. Encumbered in full flight gear, the
pilots quickly and effortlessly strike topside, their waiting aircraft
armed with ordnance for the day's mission.
Machinist Mates in Engineering's Auxiliaries Division delight in
frustrating squadron personnel by pretending to perform frequent
maintenance on the escalators... red tagging-out the electrical system and
dismantling key components, infuriating the egotistical airdales.
It's a black shoe - brown shoe thing.
Although currently out-of-commission, the escalator still facilitates
quick transit from the second deck to the gallery 03 level. Avoiding the
clotted traffic of sailors and shipyard workers, the direct route also
precludes the necessity to navigate through a maze of compartments,
passageways, inclined ladders, hatches, and obstructions inherent in the
port-quarter of the ship.
"Through here," as Rozo pushes Bepler through the armored ballistic door
onto the escalator.
Taking station astern, encouraging forward ascension up the immobile
metal treads, the officer's hand aggressively pushes and squeezes the
sailor's enticing ass.
Now why hadn't he noticed THAT before?
An asset any sailor would be proud to possess, the Ensign ruminates,
`does Bepler takes it up the ass?' He must, the officer concludes, don't
all sailors?
Obviously, he needs to sample a piece.
- - - - - Flashback Ten Months - - - - -
Ensign Rozo clearly remembers the first time he met HT3 Thomas Michael
Bepler.
A wiry kid of dazzling perfection, Bepler has smooth creamy white skin,
high cheekbones, expressive brown eyes, and an infectious smile with
inviting voluptuous lips. At first glance the Ensign knew the sailor was
destined to be an officer's boy.
His boy.
Established by Congress on 13 October 1775, the fledgling Continental
Navy incorporated many British Naval customs and traditions, with a French
admixture from the revolutionary war alliance. One such tradition was for
boys to serve aboard ships as officer's boys, cabin boys, and midshipmen.
John Paul Jones went to sea at age 13 aboard Friendship, a brig out of
Whitehaven. And John Barry, the most successful captain of the
Revolutionary War and `Father of the American Navy', started out as a cabin
boy aboard a fishing skiff out of Rosslare, Ireland.
While the concept has evolved over the last 235 years, sailors still
unofficially serve as officer's boys in today's modern Navy. Being an
ardent traditionalist, selecting a boy from the sailors in his division is
a sacred responsibility, one the Ensign takes very seriously.
The Navy is not unlike prison... except prisoners have some rights,
sailors not so much.
Signing an enlistment contract, swearing an inviolable oath, sailors
surrender their civil law rights and voluntarily accept military authority
and jurisdiction under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). Bound
by regulations, they are subject to strict rules, endless requirements, and
the capricious whims of officers.
Aggressively hunted by predatory shipmates, many vulnerable sailors
prefer to serve an officer, a practical survival strategy, instead of being
relentlessly used by the crew. Enjoying significant prestige, privilege,
and protection, hopeful boys dream about being selected by an officer - to
be his boy.
And as expected, the competition is inherently intense.
"Please sir, select me," Bepler begs, "I'll do anything you want, sir."
"Anything sailor, are you sure?"
"Sir, yes, sir. Whatever you require."
"Very well. Fill out a special request chit and I'll consider your
qualifications."
Although there are many highly qualified sailors applying for the
position, Bepler's enthusiasm is impressive... making him the
front-runner. Respecting the selection process, however, ensuring equal
opportunity, the officer evaluates all the candidates' skills before making
a final selection.
"A schedule will be posted on the division's bulletin board. Don't miss
your appointment."
"Yes, sir, I'll be there. You can count on me."
"Very well Bepler."
Interviewing the dozen applicants is exhausting but exhilarating work.
Accepting the challenge, Ensign Rozo measures their skills and
willingness to swallow navy jam. It's gratifying seeing how eager they are
to please - renewing his faith in the American sailor.
Looking for an advantage, several provocatively rub their alluring
asses, advertising availability.
Although enamored by smooth golden-skinned Latino sailors - so
delicious, the Ensign is also happy to select a charming and deferential
Asian boy, or a talented white kid.
Discretion and maturity are important qualities - but a subservient and
respectful disposition is paramount. An inclination for veneration doesn't
hurt either. After all, the Ensign is an officer and gentleman by an act of
Congress serving at the pleasure of the President.
In the end, Bepler is selected.
The sailor's ebullient spirit, alacrity, and commitment to professional
excellence make him stand out - not to mention his crazy oral
skills. Insatiable and immensely talented, demonstrating exceptional
ability, he's an enthusiastic cock-sucking sailor.
"Bepler is off-limits," orders the Ensign, passing the word at morning
quarters.
The sailor is now his exclusive property.
Once designated as an `officer's boy', no one, not even the Command
Master Chief or another officer would dare to touch him... an unthinkable
breach of etiquette with serious consequences.
Loyal and submissive, Bepler is an excellent acquisition. Instinctively,
he understands the Ensign's emotional and physical predilections and
provides exceptional service.
"Why did you enlisted in the Navy?" the Ensign asks, curious about the
boy's own story.
"To move on to something better, sir."
Haunted by the past, emotionally bruised, hesitant to provide amplifying
details, Bepler's response, typical of most sailors, is sad commentary on
the decay of western civilization accelerated by civil unrest and the drug
culture of the 60's and 70's.
A week later they celebrate the sailor's 19th birthday at the Wooden
Nickel.
Located in Norfolk Virginia on Military Highway, the sailor bar is
adorned with command plaques and faded ships' pictures. After several
beers, besieged by a nimiety of repressed memories, Bepler's emotional dam
weakens.
"I never knew my father... and my mother drank heavily, often
disappearing for days."
"That's most unfortunate," Rozo commiserates.
From his division officer's notebook, the Ensign knows Bepler hails from
the high country of rural western Virginia. The undulating Appalachian
landscape, an endless succession of elevations and ridges shrouded in blue
isoprene haze, has long been abandoned by time and sidestepped by progress.
Born in a small unincorporated community in secreted Bedford County,
Bepler grew up alongside the King James River, where the Blue Ridge
Mountains on the east and the Allegheny Mountains on the west pinch the
Shenandoah Valley.
The James, a freshwater river formed from the confluence of the
Cowpasture and Jackson, meanders east for 340 miles, descending out of the
mountains to the coastal plains. Reaching sea level east of Richmond, it
becomes a tidal river and at Hampton Roads meets the Chesapeake Bay -
homeport to the world's largest and most powerful naval force.
"Mostly my older brother Billy watched over me," the sailor
continues. "He taught me to hunt and often took me to Jennings Creek, a
secluded swimming hole off the James."
Remote and inaccessible, bordered by grassy banks, shrubs, and
broad-leaved deciduous hardwoods - oak and hickory, Jennings Creek is where
boys go for wild swimming.
Unregulated, worthy of rowdy camaraderie, the rich brown water from the
tannin of decaying leaves caresses naked bodies. Communing with nature,
boys forge intimate connections, share stories, and learn about life and
sex.
Wrestling playfully, displaying his superior strength, Billy lifts his
naked younger brother out of the water and launches him skyward. With arms
and legs flaying about, briefly defying gravity, the young boy shrieks with
childish delight. Descending from the dizzy peak, crashing downward,
submerged underwater, he touches the muddy bottom and floats effortlessly
to the surface.
Retaliating, the young boy naturally reaches for Billy - but ends up
with his brother's dick instead, his small hand barely halfway around the
thick teenage shaft.
"Let go of my dick, faggot."
"Sorry Billy, it was an accident," as the embarrassed boy, amazed by the
appendage's proportions, quickly releases the awakening and expanding
shaft.
Bepler takes a long drink, swallows, and empties the domestic beer
bottle. Looking down with distraught and unfocused eyes, ruminating over
traumatic memories, the sailor exhales a deep measured breath and musters
the courage to continue as the emotional sluice gates slowly open.
"Soon after, Billy led me out of the creek."
Prodded from behind, traversing a root-strewn path, the boy is forced
deeper into the unsullied wilderness. Negotiating rugged terrain, over
tawny rocks and boulders, around uprooted trees rotting with clutches of
wild mushrooms, and through thickets of saxicoline brush, they reach a
secluded hollow hidden by a stand of hickory.
The sonority of elemental forces, the forest's murmurings, flows
ominously as songbirds in the canopy - starlings, thrushes, and warblers
scold a warning with sharp whistles and twittering notes.
Unceremoniously, the boy is pushed to his knees on the verdant moss
carpet. A warm breeze blows rife with the earthy aromatic fragrance of wood
rot, loamy soil, and old leaves burning in slow decay.
Piercing rays of sunlight cascade down between the swaying trees,
illuminating Billy's muscular teenage torso. Transfixed by the view, inches
from the young boy's face, with foreskin retracted over the large purple
head, Billy's majestic cock beckons, commanding attention and examination.
"It's amazing, right?" asks the manipulative older boy.
Speechless, the young boy can only nod in the affirmative.
Mesmerized by the immense power surging within the tumescent cock,
overwhelming his senses, the young boy is helplessly drawn to it like a
moth to a flame. Captivated, he watches as Billy seductively strokes the
amazing shaft, accentuating its rapidly growing length.
"All boys are curious," he adds with disarming assurance. "Go ahead,
hold it."
Idolizing his older brother, craving continued attention, the submissive
and trusting boy is eager to please the superior male. Confused but
compelled, burning with curiosity, he reaches for the tumid offering... his
trembling hands unable to completely enclose the massive girth.
"It's... it's huge," whispers the stunned boy.
"Show it respect," Billy seductively encourages. "Kiss it."
Swallowing hard, obediently leaning forward, parting his lips, placing
them on the blood-engorged cockhead, he hesitantly complies with the
request.
"Oh yeah, that's good. Now lick it," he cajoles the entranced boy.
Facilitating the precarious decent, Billy sweet-talks his little brother
until the boy's natural reluctance weakens and dissolves. Extending his
tongue, taking a taste, licking around the enflamed head and along the
thick shaft, he innocently follows his brother's meticulous instructions.
Firmly guiding the boy's head, expecting compliance, Billy doesn't offer
any choice.
Nearby, curious gray squirrels, eastern-chipmunks, and other indigenous
feral creatures watch the boys. Chattering, they shuffle through the
detritus of decaying leaves and underbrush while debating the significance
of the curious human behavior.
Transported in time, navigating emotional waters, Bepler remembers the
pivotal moment when his life changed forever. Immersed in the task, slowly
but surely, Billy's large gland somehow ends up inside his little
mouth. He's not sure how it happens, it just does, and before he realizes
it, he's sucking cock.
"That was the first time I sucked, sir."
"And what do you remember most about the experience, Bepler?"
"The smell, sir. The astonishing scent."
While the texture is amazing - the soft succulent head, surprising
malleable velvet-smooth steel shaft, and firm testicles hanging ponderously
in their fleshy wrinkled bag, it's the rich aroma the young boy will always
remember.
Beguiled, with no return to innocence, it smelled like destiny.
Applying pressure, encouraging him to keep sucking, Billy becomes more
insistent, forcing more inside the little mouth, occupying all the
available real estate.
After a few minutes, Billy pulls out, jerks up and down, and shoots four
voluminous spurts, drenching his little brother's surprised face. The
chunky viscous custard scalds his fragile psyche, slides down his forehead,
blurs the vision in his left eye, tracks down his cheek, and drips off his
chin.
"You look great covered in jizz," said the older boy while rubbing the
dripping cock across his brother's flush face. "Next time you're going to
drink it."
Nauseous, unable to breath, the young boy experiences overwhelming
feelings of shame and guilt. Tricked, he just crossed a seminal threshold,
the evidence dripping down his distraught face. Overhearing older boys talk
derisively about faggots, he knows it's the worst thing a boy can be...a
cocksucker.
The barmaid, an attractive woman with a warm smile and generous breasts,
checking on the sailors, approaches until the Ensign waves her
away. Intuitively she understands the moment, recognizing the familiar face
of distraught men and tortured souls imbued with painful memories.
Sympathetic but aroused, the Ensign encourages Bepler to
continue. Ashamed, lost in introspection, the sailor dredges up suppressed
images as the cathartic purging accelerates.
"All kids suck their older brothers... about time you started servicing
me," Billy explains while grinning the widest of malevolent grins.
Was that true? Did his friends also suck their older brothers?
Vulnerable and naïve, the sickened boy desperately wants to believe the
assertion, but can't. Intuitively, he knows it's a lie.
"Please Billy, don't tell anyone," begs the boy.
"I don't know," thinking about it. "I suppose there's no reason to share
a good thing with my buddies. After all, you're my little
brother. Cooperate and no one has to know you're a cocksucker."
"Don't call me that."
"What, a cocksucker? But that's what you are, right?"
"Um...err, yeah, I guess so," admits the humiliated and broken boy,
understanding he's irrevocably committed. Helpless to change the situation,
tricked and sweet-talked by Billy, he knows that deep down inside its
true. Boys who suck cocks are cocksuckers. And he did... and he is.
"Damn right," smacking the boy's face with the meaty but deflated
shaft. "And don't ever forget it. You were born to suck cock. My cock."
Distant jubilant voices suddenly resonate in the forest, announcing the
arrival of other boys at the creek. Recognizing the sound, Billy departs
for his friends, leaving his brother on his knees.
Alone, abandoned, and crying, the soul-crushing realization hits
home... he's a cocksucker. With the sticky evidence drying on his young
face, the boy collapses into passive despair like a puppy taken from its
mother.
Taking a deep breath, Bepler looks at Ensign Rozo and continues his
sorrowful story.
"A few nights later Billy continued my education."
Entering the austere bedroom, navigating in the darkness with feral
eyes, the predator circles the unsuspecting prey. Pouncing, easily
overpowering the boy, sitting on his chest, pinning the ineffectual arms,
immobilizing the head between muscular thighs, he quickly establishes
complete control.
"Time for another feeding," Billy announces, the strong stench of
alcohol suffusing the air.
Smacking his little brother's face with the tumid shaft, Billy issues
the simple but direct command - equal parts invitation and insult.
"Blow me, cocksucker."
Helpless, the submissive boy complies, stretching his lips around the
flared head and down the thick veiny shaft. Swinging in their floppy sack,
pendulous balls violently batter the boy's chin as Billy pumps his hips,
thrusting in-and-out, each time penetrating a little deeper.
"Take more," Billy demands, applying pressure, reaching the throat's
entrance.
Lunging aggressively, he pops inside the shocked throat. Immensely
pleased, grinning wickedly, Billy presses forward, not stopping until he's
balls deep. Exercising his birthright as the older brother, he's housed
completely inside the devastated conduit.
Suffocating, with his nose buried in Billy's thick pungent pubic hair,
the boy gulps desperate breaths between deep strokes. Minutes seem like
hours, as the shaft is alternately withdrawn and stuffed inside the
constricting and hermetically sealed orifice.
Hoping for deliverance, the boy prays his mother will awaken and save
him. Sadly, there's little chance of that - she's passed out again from
another hard night of drinking.
"I'm close... get ready," Billy shouts.
Twisting his head in futility, the young boy tries to dislodge the
swollen teenage shaft... but it's firmly entrenched inside the convulsing
throat. Tears stream down his ruddy face as he surrenders completely and
accepts the inevitable humiliation.
"Ugh... here it comes, cocksucker. Take my load you little pussy!"
Christening the boy, the aggressive teen trembles as a deluge of salty
wonder explodes down his little brother's throat, directly depositing five
thick spurts where destiny ordained.
"Fuck yeah!" Billy shouts through clenched teeth.
Pulling back, he coats his brother's tongue with the sweet sticky jam.
"How's that taste, pussy?"
"Terrible... I hate it!" the boy cries, wanting to throw up.
"Well it's an acquired taste... and I'm going to make sure you acquire
it."
And true to his word, he does. The sucking continues unabated, sometimes
twice a day, as quarts of creamy goodness are consumed. Settling into a
routine, service is provided whenever and wherever the older boy demands.
Looking at the Ensign, the sailor takes a deep breath and continues.
"Six months later everything changed when Billy brought home some
friends. Sporting conspiratorial grins and growing erections, I immediately
realized they knew... that my brother betrayed me, broke his promise. I was
shocked, dismayed, humiliated."
"That's understandable," as Rozo adjusts his constricted erection.
"I didn't want to, but Billy forced me to suck everyone."
Physically controlling the devastated boy, smacking him around,
displaying his superiority to his friends, Billy shoves himself inside the
compliant mouth. Impressed, they watch and laugh hysterically, cheer Billy
on while getting drunk, and wait with anticipation for their turn.
Eventually, they all feed the cocksucker... several boys twice.
Word quickly spreads and soon everyone in Bedford County knows about the
boy's unique skills. Departing the world of normal boys, forcefully
escorted to impromptu gatherings, he's the entertainment - the available
and compliant consumer of masculine quintessence.
"That's fucked up, right sir?"
"Yes, Bepler, that's most unfortunate," the Ensign consoles him.
"I mean... I was just a kid. I trusted Billy and he turned me into a
cocksucker, sharing me with his friends. And my mother allowed it to
happen. Why didn't she protect me?" Entrenched in painful memories,
drowning in a riptide of emotions, Bepler turns away sobbing.
The Ensign is not surprised, he's heard many similar accounts
before. Forged on the anvil of adversity, life is intrinsically unfair.
Every sailor's life is a tragedy: neglected, abused, emotionally
battered, physically beaten, bludgeoned by circumstance, living in
dysfunctional families in blighted neighborhoods, squalid existences
perched upon the precipice of doom.
The military takes all the progeny of misery and misfortune.
Changing their life's narrative, enlistment is the opportunity to
transcend the bottom rung of the social-economic ladder. It's the promise
of something better: food, shelter, safety, rules and regulations, order in
a chaotic universe, a life with meaning and purpose filled with camaraderie
and adventure.
"It's ok Bepler... the Navy is your family now, no one will ever hurt
you again," as the Ensign reaches out, wipes away tears from swollen red
eyes, and holds him tightly.
"Thank you, sir. I know I can depend on you."
"Come on, Bepler, let's leave... you're spending tonight with me."
Earlier Rozo reserved a BOQ room, so there's no need to return to the
ship. An hour later, having traversed a thousand emotional miles, contently
nursing on the Ensign's cock the sailor is finally home.
Savoring the decadence resonating on his tongue, running his trembling
fingers through the officer's enticing pubic hair, Bepler breathes deeply,
inhaling the strong masculine scent. The pheromones ignite a primitive
biological urge and the sailor suddenly ejaculates, shootings jets of
chunky-white enlisted jam.
Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz, victorious in the Battle of Midway, looks
down approvingly from the wall above - his moment in history captured in
vibrant colors.
Every sailor battles demons and fate. Resilient, silencing the voices in
his head, Bepler slowly emerges from the grit and grime of childhood
trauma, gently caressed by the healing hands of time.
"Happy Birthday, Bepler."
"Thank you, sir."
Holding Bepler tightly throughout the night, a safe harbor in the
tempest, sheltering the boy from the malevolent universe, the Ensign offers
a silent prayer - calling upon the ancient gods of Wind and Wave to protect
the sailor.
His sailor. His boy.
- - - - - Return To The Present - - - -
A minute later Ensign Rozo and HT3 Bepler are on the 03-level, heading
aft down the port passageway, jumping over steel knee-knockers. Turning
outboard, they arrive at 03-228-2-Q... repair locker 7-alpha. Within two
minutes, all 24 members of the fire party are present.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
The voyage aboard Independence continues in Chapter 2: Fire & Desire.
Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are
always of interest.
The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ensign Rozo first appeared in the sea story `Special Weapons' aboard USS
Nimitz CVN 68 - a temporary duty assignment prior to Surface Warfare
Officer's School and reassignment to Independence.
Please enjoy the story (posted in the military section on 23 Jul 2014) as
Midshipman 3/c Boyer is brutally initiated by the embarked marines and
transformed into sea-pussy. Thank you.
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/special-weapons