Date: Fri, 9 Dec 2016 04:47:07 +0100 From: James Rozo <jrozonavydod@gmx.com> Subject: USS Independence CV62 Chapter 4 USS Independence CV62 By Ensign James Rozo, USN - - - - - - - - - - - - - Author's Notes: The magnificence and alluring charm of a sailor is his tight fitting uniform. Caressing tight perky butts and generous genitalia, providing no place for a sailor to stow his gear, the taut uniform accentuates masculinity. With amazing couture, it's no coincidence the Navy is the service of choice for discerning young men. Who has a better, more iconic uniform? No one! - - - - - - - - - - - - - Chapter 4: Inspection "You shall wear your uniforms properly as described in these regulations. Naval personnel must present a proud and professional appearance that will reflect positively on the individual, the Navy, and the United States. The uniforms of the United States Navy and the indications of rank are...a visibly important element in the morale, pride, discipline, and effectiveness of the organization." ~ U.S. Navy Uniform Regulations, NAVPERS 15665 ~ Taking in all lines, Independence departs the shipyard for sea trails. Traversing through restricted waters on the Elizabeth River - the Lower Reach, Town Point Reach, Pinner Point, Lambert Bend, and Craney Island Reach - the ship passes Portsmouth to port, downtown Norfolk to starboard, and enters Hampton Roads. Steeped in 400 years of American history, the Hampton Roads Channel links the James, Nansemond, and Elizabeth rivers with the Chesapeake Bay. Proceeding north, turning to starboard, the outward-bound ship navigates the Thimble Sholes Channel and passes over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. Steaming southeast, she heads for the Virginia Capes Operating Area. Knocking off the rust, sea trials is an intense week testing repaired systems, operating new equipment, and evaluating upgraded mission capabilities. Commencing full-power runs, making turns for 30+ knots, main propulsion and auxiliary machinery is tested under battle conditions. The Navy's restricted operating area in the Atlantic off the Virginia and North Carolina coasts consists of relatively shallow water. Located on the continental shelf, lacking the calm deep waters of the abyssal plain, strong currents and severe winds frequently result in turbulent seas. Immersed in tumultuous swells and strong winds, the carrier experiences linear motions (heave, sway, surge) and rotational forces (pitch, roll, yaw) about its transverse and longitudinal axes. Lacking sea legs, new sailors flounder and attract the attention of alpha males. Surrounded by serious predators, the neophytes are unaware of the danger. Five days at sea, however, is insufficient time for effective subjugation. In no real hurry, during refresher training predators will have months to leisurely hunt and dine. Besides, they know a school of tantalizing midshipmen will soon be reporting aboard for summer cruise. Saving their appetites, they defer designs on pedestrian enlisted sea-pussy... an item on the menu year-round, preferring to feast on collegiate cuisine, available only 6 weeks a year. Down in the Chief's Mess, however, the resident mega-carnivores, with perverse sexual predilections and insatiable appetites, are already devouring a newly reported non-rate sailor... their preferred meal. The freshest of seafood, the tasty minnow is consumed with impunity. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Successfully completing sea trials, the ship returns to Norfolk. With the assistance of a pilot and three YTB harbor tugs, the carrier is carefully positioned against fenders and camels on pier 12, south side, bow out, facing west towards Newport News. Casting weighted monkey fists attached to heaving lines, Boatswain's Mates feed progressively larger lines to pier side handlers. Working in 4-man teams, heaving in the ship's hawsers, 10-inch circumferential braided nylon lines are made fast on the pier's bitts and bollards. Shifting colors, the National Ensign is hoisted on the flagstaff. The ship is moored with an arrangement of bow, spring, breast, waist, and stern lines. Working quickly, Port Services positions the enlisted and officer brows on elevator 3 and sponson 1 respectively, and connect pierside hotel services - steam, water, electric, communications, and sewage. Inport for only two weeks, the ship will frantically stock supplies, correct material deficiencies, take on fuel, address administrative issues, and integrate new crewmembers. The air wing, consisting of 2,089 swinging dicks, stationed at NAS Oceania, will also embark. - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Open up cocksucker," the HT2 demands. Repair Division's forward berthing compartment, 3-54-0-L, containing sixty racks with an adjoining head, is abuzz with activity as sailors prepare for the morning's personnel inspection. A young HTFA on his knees, reaffirming his insignificant position in the military hierarchy, is busy servicing shipmates. Newly reported aboard from Navy Recruit Training Center Great Lakes, he is the division's newest compartment cleaner and duty cocksucker. A well-established nautical shibboleth, sucking isn't considered gay - it's just new sailors taking their turn over the barrel, paying homage to superior males. "Suck it." Following orders, the HTFA extends his tongue and samples the leaking nectar. Licking his lips, detecting exquisite layers of flavor, he savors the unique salty-sweet taste of potent masculinity. Intoxicated, he opens wide and engulfs the large spongy gland. "That's it, take more." Demonstrating leadership, the skilled petty officer tilts the young squid's head back... ensuring proper alignment. Insistently pushing the tongue out of the way, moving deeper in the generous mouth, he is perched upon the throat's precipice. Thrusting viciously forward, the cupidinous sailor secures quarters inside the convulsing throat. Tunneling down, the thick shaft disappears inch-by-inch until two-blocked. With balls pressed against the sailor's chin, he is prevented from proceeding any deeper. "Awk... ugh," the impaled HTFA babbles incoherently. "Oh yeah, choke on it." Pressing against silky-smooth membranes, the magnificent shaft is protruding obscenely in the HTFA's neck. Choking the sailor with strong calloused hands, manipulating up and down, the petty officer jerks-off in the cocksucker's throat. Luxuriating in the convulsing conduit, the HT2 breathes deeply and savors the amazing sensation. Enjoying the many privileges of rank, the second class petty officer loves being in the Navy... the amazing adventures and opportunities, rewarding and satisfying. Make no doubt about it, there is nothing like throat fucking an inferior male. Wedged like a cork in a wine bottle, the HT2's large gland forms an airtight interference fit - preventing air from reaching the struggling sailor. Suffocating, flailing his arms widely, his eyes slowly roll up and consciousness begins to slip away. "Hurry up already," complains a watching shipmate. "Fuck you... wait your turn." Confined to tight quarters, the sailors have only 30 minutes left to shower, shave, get dressed, and be standing in formation for inspection. Pressed for time, sailors maneuver to gain access to the head's fixtures: three water closets, four urinals, six showers, and six sinks. Pulling back slightly, allowing a gulp of air to reach the boy's oxygen-starved lungs, getting close, the HT2 suddenly explodes and feeds the dazed sailor a nutritious breakfast. "Swallow it!" Having no choice, the submissive boy consumes his superior's jam. Quaffing quarts of creamy goodness over the last hour, sore from the constant barrage and battering, the surfeited sailor isn't sure how many more shipmates he can effectively service. "Get out of the way," demands an HT3, pushing into the mouth. Meanwhile, sailors simultaneously share the head's 36-inch square stainless steel shower stalls. Squeezing together, jostling for position like arcade bumper cars, playing a little grab-ass or engaging in inadvertent sword-fights, it's just boys being boys. Other shipmates queue up, waiting and watching as the sailors sensuously run soapy hand around their muscular torsos, generous genitalia, and attractive asses. It's not all-innocent play, however. Surveying the sea of opportunity, predators stalk their preferred quarry with deadly patience. Excited by the thrill of the hunt, it's exhilarating plotting the take down of an inferior shipmate, converting him into sea-pussy. With magnificent deadliness, many young sailors will be subjugated and leisurely devoured once the ship shifts colors and is underway. - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Are we ready for inspection, Senior Chief?" asks Ensign Rozo. "Yes, sir. The men are mustered in Hanger Bay 1." HTCS (SW) Roberto Garcia, the division's LCPO, is a well-decorated Navy veteran with 26 years of service. An Enlisted Surface Warfare Specialist pin and six rows of ribbons, including a Legion of Merit and Meritorious Service Medal, are meticulously arranged on his uniform. Personnel inspections are held when the official uniform changes twice a year - an endless cycle of Winter Blues and Summer Whites. Outward symbols of tradition and professionalism, sailors must comply with strict uniform regulations and grooming standards. "Very well. I'll get the DCA from the Engineering Log Room. We'll be topside in 5 minutes, at 0730. Have the division standing `at ease' in 5 rows of 20 men." "Aye, aye sir." CDR Thomas Grant, the Damage Control Assistant, one of three principal assistants to the Chief Engineer, is Rozo's immediate supervisor, mentor, and protector. Immensely intelligent, admired by officers and sailors alike, he's the consummate professional. Upon reaching the hanger bay, 1-59-0-Q, the Ensign sees the men standing alongside the number 1 aircraft elevator door. The 28-foot high 2-ton horizontal rolling watertight door is adorned with the command crest and motto `Worth Fighting For'. Built in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, commissioned on 10 January 1959, she is the fifth ship on the US Naval Register named Independence. Painted below the crest is a list of all her commanding officers with dates of command. Captain Rhodam McElroy, Jr., USN, plank owner, is followed by 19 more names. Annotated with gold stars, many of her skippers attained flag rank as Battle Group and Fleet Commanders. Approaching the men, the Ensign takes charge and issues orders. "Repair Division, attention! At close interval... dress right dress. Open ranks march!" And the sailors respond to the Ensign's commands with military precision. ENS Rozo and CDR Grant are impeccably attired in their Summer White Service uniforms. Consisting of a white certified navy twill short-sleeved shirt with black and gold shoulder boards indicating rank, white twill trousers with white belt, and white shoes, the uniform is disparagingly known as the milkman. The authorized headwear is the combination cap adorned with gold insignia. "Sir, Repair Division standing by for inspection," as the Ensign renders the CDR a salute. "Very well," returning the salute. "Proceed." Transitioning for the summer, the sailors are in Service Dress Whites - an iconic uniform that readily identifies members of the maritime profession. With amazing couture, it's no coincidence the Navy is the service of choice for discerning young men. The ceremonial uniform consists of a white jumper, white bell-bottom trousers with a fly front, a black square knot tied neckerchief, and a white Dixie cup. Ribbons are worn above the left breast pocket with the appropriate rate badge on the left sleeve. Navy regulations require that appropriate undergarments be worn to preserve the dignity and appearance of the white uniform. Most sailors however, are brazen exhibitionists and proudly flaunt their gear, pushing the limits of respectability. For Ensign Rozo, personnel inspection are an intoxicating quasi-religious experience. The translucent white fabric, providing no discreet place for a sailor to stow his gear, reveals everything to the appreciative officer. Walking between the ranks, he notices dozens of throbbing and twitching erections invitingly on public display. Thick shafts, prominent veins, shapely cockheads, and large testicles are all clearly discernible behind the thin cotton material. Living aboard ship the past year the Ensign has seen at least 600 naked sailors, including all 110 men in his division. Progressing down the ranks and taking inventory, like a super hero with x-ray vision, he mentally strips them, and delights in their proud masculinity. 10% of the sailors are exceptional, 80% shades of mediocrity, and 10% dirt-bags. Inundated with administrative requirements and collateral duties, Rozo doesn't have time to babysit every sailor. Setting high standards and delineating expectations, he rewards top performers and summarily punishes the worst UCMJ violators. Sending a clear message, the middle 80% are essentially ignored. "Excellent appearance Petty Officer Franck... your uniform is impeccable," as the Ensign glances down at the sailor's inviting package. Admirably filling out the sharply creased uniform, the sailor's pronounced shaft and rounded cockhead bulge proudly under the diaphanous fabric. Two impressive testicles, searching for accommodations, hang down the left trouser leg. "Thank you, sir." HT3 Stephen Franck enlisted in the Navy to escape a suffocating existence in a small Pennsylvania blue-collar town steeped in Catholicism. An adventurous boy, possessing unconventional predilections, he has displayed excellent oral talent and enthusiasm on numerous occasions. "We need to discuss your preparation for the advancement exams." Taking an active interest in the handsome boy's career, Rozo has spent many hours working with the appreciative sailor. Providing personalized hands-on instruction, he has often stripped and inspected the boy's sensuous body and enticing ass. Once underway, he'll enjoy a piece of sweet sea-pussy. Standing at attention with a throbbing erection, Franck recalls previous instructional sessions. Excited, his body radiates the soothing scent of Old Spice cologne - its masculine greatness from a near-perfect blend of bright citrus, warm flowers, rich vanilla, and cedar wood. Being in section 3, Rozo knows the sailor has duty tonight. "Report to my stateroom at 2230." "Aye, aye, sir." Grinning widely with palpable pride, Franck understands he's being rewarded for his meticulous uniform appearance with the special privilege of sucking the commissioned officer and drinking delicious nutrient-rich jam. His shipmates, no doubt, will be envious of his good fortune. Moving down the ranks, Rozo is now facing HTFN Nikolas Chalavoutis... a fallen angel who has lived in the gutter most of his life staring up at the stars. The officer closely inspects the young sailor's uniform and lean body. A shameless exhibitionist, Chalavoutis is without underwear and the tightly clinging uniform emphasizes every contour, showing off his remarkable assets. "Fireman, you look exceptional in whites." "Thank you, Sir." Descendant of Greek ancestry, Chalavoutis has an exquisite olive complexion, thick black curly hair, and luxurious dark piercing eyes. Having seen him naked on many occasions, Rozo knows the sailor is completely smooth, regularly shaving the island of hair below the equator. A common practice in Greek antiquity, male pubic hair was often removed to emulate the ideal physical beauty of prepubescent boys. Small hairless genitalia, the socially sanctioned object of veneration, were considered aesthetically beautiful. On the sailor's chest is a 5-pointed nautical star and compass rose tattoo. The star represents a fixed point of reference upon which sailors rely to keep themselves out of harm's way. The compass rose is a traditional symbol of navigation and of finding one's direction through physical and emotional confusion. Growing up in Astoria, a poor ethnic neighborhood in the northwestern corner of the New York City borough of Queens, Chalavoutis' childhood is filled with violence and sexual abuse. Provided a classical Greek education by his stepfather, he was deflowered at a tender age. Running away from the dysfunctional home, roaming the streets devoid of hope, disconnected and desperate, he walks a treacherous path fraught with the city's destitute and deviant denizens. As darkness falls, the frightened boy dodges dangerous liaisons with drug dealers, pimps, robbers, and other exploitive criminal elements. Seeking protection, he joins other desperate kids who collect like scattered leaves around abandoned buildings and narrow alleyways. Several street-smart older boys, recognizing his potential, teach Chalavoutis how to survive by peddling his wares on Manhattan's street corners. Shedding all vestiges of childhood, he rents his body to needy Japanese businessmen, UN diplomats, and other connoisseurs of young boy flesh. Taking up residence on the corner of 53rd and Broadway, wearing just a pair of small cut-off shorts, advertising his availability, the boy attracts attention. Potential clients, aroused by urges and fantasies, inspect the merchandise while envisioning unspeakable acts of depravity. An enjoyable delight, he's a fresh young face in the sex supermarket. Working in an industry that values youth above all else, the glabrous boy is a perishable commodity with an expiration date stamped on his ass. Until fully entrenched in puberty, he's a highly coveted prize that commands an exorbitant price. Desired by wealthy patrons, the competition for young boys is intense. Several Japanese businessmen wearing silk suits stare at the boy like a Kobe filet mignon sizzling on a plate. Salivating, they consume the boy with their eyes, imagining the succulent flavor, tenderness, and texture melting on their tongues. In Japan, there is a strong tradition of monastic and military pederasty. Buddhist and Shinto monks enjoyed close sexual relationships with adolescent acolytes, and Samurai practiced the honorable and codified system of homosexuality with prepubescent boys known as shudo, the `Way of the Young'. These modern business samurai, however, lack honor. Celebrating a successful business deal, they intend to aggressively consume the kid. A forbidden delicacy in modern Japan, he is their reward before returning home to wives, children, conformity, and proper lives as respected entrepreneurs. Suddenly, an armored black Mercedes limousine with diplomatic license plates turns the corner and stops... a serious buyer of young boys. The Japanese men, their meal interrupted by the formidable predator, instinctively retreat a few paces. Vicarious consumers, watching intently, they take a front-row seat for the unfolding theatre. The rear passenger window descends and the occupants drink in the boy's beauty. With a simple but authoritative hand gesture, the boy is commanded to approach the vehicle. "What's your name, boy?" "Nikolas sir," as he nervously assumes a deferential demeanor. Hunting the streets, the apex predator is searching for a special acquisition to augment his collection of catamites. Inspecting the young boy... a little diamond immersed in the city's trash, he's aroused by the lack of salient age markers. Attired in traditional Arabic clothing, an exquisite black and gold besht, conveying the man's high status and wealth, flows over the formal thawb, a white cotton embroidered tunic. Bodyguards, attired in simpler garments, carrying lethal weapons, provide the Saudi Prince with protection. "A Greek. Wonderful. You're very beautiful." "Thank you, sir." Draped in youthful perfection, the boy flashes an alluring smile. Employing subtle seduction skills, he enticingly rubs his pert little ass, and glances away. Pederasty in ancient times was not the exclusive domain of the Greeks. Many cultures preferred the love of boys. Historically, Sultans and Sheikhs maintained large harams of beautiful boys. Delightful temptations, the proverb, `women for breeding, but boys for pleasure' was well founded. Dancing seductively, sensual boys with oiled and perfumed bodies provided alluring entertainment and exceptional bedtime companionship. Unfortunately, the once ubiquitous practice has virtually disappeared. Although not forbidden by the Quran, the guardians of Islamic doctrine consider boy-love a corrupting pleasure. Privately, however, high-quality society boys are still enthusiastically enjoyed and covertly passed among members of the royal family. The dangerous streets are no place for this beautiful boy, thinks the Prince, His Excellency the Ambassador of Saudi Arabia to the United Nations. Enjoying diplomatic immunity, the ambassador indulges his predilection for young American boys with impunity. "Acquire the boy," orders the Prince, turning to an aid. "As you command, your Excellency." Two menacing bodyguards exit the limousine and approach Nikolas. Presenting a small fortune in gold coins and no choice, the awestruck boy is shepherd into the vehicle and whisked away. The Japanese businessmen, although disappointed at their personal loss, politely applaud the abduction. Sexually excited, they envision the young boy being repeatedly defiled. Starving, looking to satiate their aberrant appetite, desiring local cuisine, they renew the search for street urchins. "Strip boy," commands the Prince. Hesitating, momentarily flustered, the boy looks from face to face. Embarrassed, but understanding he has no choice, he slips off his shorts and superman underpants. Totally naked, sitting nervously while the men leer like hungry wolves, the car heads east across town towards the Saudi Consulate. "You won't need these." The aid opens a window and discards the boy's clothing. Shocked and terrified, naked and vulnerable, without material possessions, Nikolas is completely at the men's mercy. Appreciating the boy's discomfort, the smiling Prince lightly caresses the soft unblemished flesh, smooth legs, and small erect penis. Prodding the tight scrotum, the underdeveloped eggs not yet descended, he's very pleased with the day's acquisition. "Magnificent." Once safely ensconced, the Prince will have several years to indulge every conceivable sexual perversion with the boy, enjoying the wonders of adolescent flesh. And the boy receives a robust education. Seven years later, trying to make something meaningful of his life, crossing the awkward abandon of adolescence towards adulthood, Chalavoutis convinces the NY Time Square Station Navy Recruiter to let him enlist despite lacking a high school degree. "Please sir, let me enlist in the Navy. I have transferable skills." Unlike the Army, the Navy doesn't take too many kids without diplomas. Exceptions, however, are made for beautiful boys and Chalavoutis is nothing if not resourceful and determined, employing considerable powers of persuasion. "Hmm... well, I'll need to... um, test your abilities." "Of course, sir." Although impressed with the boy's oral skills and eagerness to swallow Navy jam, it's his alluring ass that consummates the deal. Tested aggressively by the recruiter and his staff of enlisted sailors, the boy surrenders completely to the experience, never asking for mercy. "Well, son there's definitely a place for you in the Fleet." The recruiter enthusiastically approves the enlistment, procuring talented chattel. The boy, possessing strong credentials and exceptional skills, will undoubtedly be appreciated by many shipmates, enhancing the Fleet's morale and combat readiness. "How are you doing with your GED?" Ensign Rozo asks Chalavoutis. "Good, sir. The mathematics section, however, is giving me problems." "Well, it's important for making third class petty officer. I'll help you with the hard stuff," envisioning shafting Chalavoutis' enticing ass. "Come see me after we get underway." "Aye, aye, sir." Excited by the prospects, the officer's shaft awakens, inflates, and searches for quarters inside the suddenly constricting white trousers. And the whole division understands that the Ensign intend to breed the little Greek boy again. The inspection party progresses to the third rank of sailors. Surprisingly, halfway down the line, slouching between shipmates, is the division's rabbit, HTFA Andrew Cramer. Possessing limited mental capabilities, lacking discipline and military temperament, the conspicuous under-achiever is devoid of any redeeming skills or abilities. "I see you decided to join us today," the Ensign notes sarcastically. "I'm restricted to the fucking ship," responds the surly sailor. Recalcitrant, defying authority on a regular basis, Cramer has gone UA more frequently than anyone in the division. Unfortunately, he keeps returning. Impulsive and immature, incapable of performing even basic military duties, Cramer is an unreliable shipmate - the worst condemnation of a sailor. UCMJ Article 86 - Absence Without Leave Any member of the armed forces who, without authority (1) fails to go to his appointed place of duty at the time prescribed; (2) goes from that place; or (3) absents himself or remains absent from his unit, organization, or place of duty at which he is required to be at the time prescribed; shall be punished as a court-martial may direct. A skinny kid with an aggressive attitude to match his oversized 9-inch cock, he enlisted to avoid prison after impregnating the local police chief's 14-year-old daughter. Only after reporting to boot camp did he discover there is very little difference between the institutions. Prisoners have some rights - sailors, not as much. Unfortunately for Cramer, the Navy owns his ass for four years. His uniform is a total disgrace and CDR Grant rips into the sailor. As a senior officer, he assigns Cramer 20 hours of EMI, to be served down in No. 4 Main Machinery Room (4MMR), 7-119-0-E, cleaning the bilges - one of the dirtiest jobs aboard ship. Cramer has been awarded NJP on countless occasions. Historically, strict discipline was enforced by flogging or hanging enlisted men from the yardarm. Officers like John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur, and Joshua Barney had reputations that made subordinates tremble... and sailors obeyed regulations or suffered dire consequences. In today's kinder gentle Navy, not so much. Destroying years of tradition amid the political agonies of the Vietnam War, Admiral Elmo Zumwalt Jr., the 19th CNO, in a misguided effort to improve enlisted life, reformed personnel policies and ushered in a lenient, pot-smoking, beard wearing, sloppy, undisciplined Navy. Many old sea dogs, disgusted with the state of their beloved Navy, retired. Prejudicial to good order and discipline, Cramer's behavior brings nothing but discredit to the Navy. Regrettably, all NJP has been ineffective. Rozo has discussed the situation with the afloat JAG, but more documentation is required to convene a Special Courts-Martial to issue a bad-conduct discharge. Perhaps it's time for a different approach. Closed-door counseling i.e., a brutal ass beating, is an effective disciplinary technique and often a vital part of a sailor's military education. Ensign Rozo decides to speak with MMCM Abraham, the Master Chief Machinist Mate in charge of 4MMR. The secluded machinery room is the perfect location for providing an uninterrupted performance feedback session. Authorizing the endeavor, the Ensign will ensure Cramer understand the fundamental relationship between actions and consequences. A robust beating and greasing, discharging the working end of a grease gun up his ass, should send a clear message that Engineering doesn't appreciate rabbits. And two cartridges should fill the kid up nicely. Insubordinate, challenging the officer's supreme authority, Cramer has the temerity to look directly at the Ensign, his contemptuous feral eyes radiating hostility. While fully justified, the officer resists the strong undeniable urge to slap the shit out of the disrespectful sailor. With his impending destiny assured, however, Ensign Rozo smiles, knowing Cramer will soon be beaten and pumped full of general-purpose grease. After that transformative experience he'll stop going UA. Or even better, he'll desert and never return. Reaching the fifth rank, where the most seniors sailors stand, Ensign Rozo is now inspecting the division's top enlisted alpha male, HT1Terrell Jackson. Aggressive and dominating, the crackerjack black sailor has a stunning muscular physique and an uncanny ability to control younger sailors. Not calloused, just occasionally indifferent, he possesses the right amalgam of attachment and detachment in dealing with troublesome subordinates. While Jackson has countless female conquests in port, he acquired an appetite for sea-pussy while underway. A powerful source of solace, infinitely better than masturbation, a distinction without a difference, it must be experienced to be fully appreciated. And you don't have to spend money just to enjoy a piece of ass. Jackson loves stuffing his10-inch beer-can thick ebony cock up inside the tight chute of a hyperventilating bottom-dweller. A spectacle, exhilarated shipmates watch and cheer at the contorted facial expressions of a well-fucked kid... the pain and humiliation evident. On his chest is a tattoo of a clipper ship with sails billowing, slicing through choppy waves, surrounded by a red and blue banner that reads `Homeward Bound'. Off the ship's starboard bow is a contrasting image - a seductive mermaid. The tattoo illustrates an emotional dilemma - although sailors long to go home, they are also enticed by the intrinsic beauty and mystery of the sea. "Petty Officer Jackson, you uniform is exceptional." Setting the standard for others to emulate, Jackson's uniform has sharp military creases, an Enlisted Surface Warfare Specialist pin, and four rows of ribbons, including a Navy Achievement Medal with two bronze stars. "Thank you, sir." "I have a special assignment for you." In a few days, the ship is receiving 40 midshipmen for their six-week summer cruise. Repair Division has been allocated two midshipman, 1/c Hopkins and 3/c Klodaski, both from the Naval Academy. The Ensign is personally taking charge of Hopkins. "I'm assigning you as running mate to midshipman 3/c Klodaski." "Sweet. Thank you sir." Inordinately pleased, Jackson displays a huge grin and rapidly expanding erection. A skilled predator, he loves breaking-in and teaching academy midshipmen, the privileged scions of elite families, about nautical life and sacrifice on the high seas. From its founding, only 1percent of USNA midshipmen have been from the working class. President Thomas Jefferson disliked the Navy because he thought it was too elitist - with punctilious courtesy and protocols, egotistical glory-hound officers, and tailored uniforms with gold braid and fancy buttons. Stratified by rank, it's a society of exclusion controlled by affluent men of noble mien. "You achieved commendable results with the last midshipman," notes the Ensign. Classified as officers of the line with a titular rank between warrant officer (W-1) and the lowest grade of chief warrant officer (W-2), midshipman are not entrusted or authorized to exercise Title 10 or Title 50 authority as specified in United States Code. Lacking Fleet experience, most 3/c midshipmen have a pompous attitude and just enough knowledge to turn a bad situation into a catastrophe. It takes strong leadership to control, guide, and keep a kid from tragically stepping on his dick. Mission focused, skillful and precocious in obtaining results, Jackson is the right man to train, break-in, and ensure midshipmen complete PQS qualifications and Nautical Mile Certification. It takes a professional to teach academy boys their proper place in the Fleet - on their knees servicing enlisted men or bent over a desk, fire pump, or other piece of machinery ass up and open. An unabashed advocate of tradition, Ensign Rozo has many amazing pictures in his extensive collection courtesy of Jackson's dedicated instructional efforts. "Thank you sir. That midshipman was something special." Reflecting on the many hours spent pummeling the boy, Jackson becomes fully erect. He's never seen a midshipman embrace the certification process with so much enthusiasm. Exceedingly popular, improving the division's morale, everyone greatly enjoyed helping with the boy's education. "Provide 3/c Klodaski with the full-enlisted experience and ensure he gets qualified. Share him within the division and have fun, but don't damage the kid too much. And of course, I want pictures." "Aye, aye, sir." 1MC: The bugle call `To the Colors' plays and the `prep' pennant is raised. It's 0755 and five minutes to morning colors. Flag etiquette, the raising and lowering, is an important naval tradition. The national flag, referred to as `Colors' when carried by foot and as the `National Ensign' when displayed aboard a vessel, is a deeply respected icon of American freedom. The personnel inspection completes just as `attention' is sounded on the 1MC. `Attention to Colors' is followed by the national anthem as the Ensign and Union Jack are hoisted smartly to the top of the flagstaff and jackstaff located on the ship's stern and bow respectively. Once underway for refresher training, open season on midshipmen will commence, and crewmen will scheme and conspire to trick, trap, and tap some sweet young 3/c sea-pussy. In the Navy, rank is everything. And life as an officer is sweet; for hunted 3/c midshipmen, not so much. - - - - - - - - - - - - - The voyage aboard Independence continues in Chapter 5: A Fine Navy Day. Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com