Date: Tue, 9 May 2017 23:16:33 +0200 From: James Rozo <jrozonavydod@gmx.com> Subject: USS Independence CV62 - Chapter 9 USS Independence CV62 By Ensign James Rozo, USN - - - - - - - - - - - - - Author's Notes: Inport, where trollops gravitate towards sailors like barnacles to a hull, and pussy is readily obtainable at every Norfolk bar and street corner, shipmates rarely screw shipmates. That would be gay. And everyone knows there are no gay sailors in the US Navy. Underway, however, the rules of engagement are substantially altered. Young men with surging testosterone, combating the tribulations of nautical life, cloistered for long durations without officially sanctioned releases, naturally seek alternative outlets. Entrenched in a competitive environment where predators and prey cohabitate, submissive sailors... some willingly, other not as much, assist shipmates and provide essential services. And honestly, who doesn't enjoy an occasional piece of sea-pussy? - - - - - - - - - - - - - Chapter 8: Underway Making Way "All of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea... we are going back from whence we came." ~ President John F. Kennedy, 14 September 1962, at America's Cup Dinner, Newport, Rhode Island ~ Steaming south, Independence commences the next grueling phase in the ship's operational cycle - TYCOM qualifications and REFTRA training. Culminating in the ORE, the ship will undergo an exhaustive examination of mission capabilities, operational proficiency, and battle readiness. Haze gray and underway, the crew quickly acclimates to life at sea. The brutal reality includes arduous 14-hour workdays, 3-section watch standing, long chow lines, restricted water-hours, and ceaseless training, drills, and tactical exercises. Between flight quarters, general quarters, and underway replenishments, the crew often doesn't sleep for 24 to 36 hours at a time. Aboard every ship there is a deep unit pride that allows sailors to transcend hardships. Through hard work there is a pirate camaraderie, a glorious culture that values traditions, a cohesive mentality that there's `us'... the best ship in the Fleet, and then fucking everyone else. Make no doubt about it, there is nothing like it, being attached to a sea-going command. - - - - - - - - - - - - - "All stations, control: now secure from BECCEs," the Main Propulsion Assistant orders over the 26MC - the engineering squawk box in Main Control, 4-132-0-E. "Secure, aye," the four main and two auxiliary machinery rooms reply in sequence, maintaining strict military circuit discipline. After participating in Basic Engineering Casualty Control Exercises for 10 hours under the watchful eye of PEB Team members, utilizing the ship's customized Engineering Operational Sequencing System Guide, an exhausted Ensign Rozo retires to his stateroom, 3-146-0-L. Waiting inside the compartment is his boy, HT3 Bepler. A sailor of dazzling perfection, Bepler has curly chestnut-brown hair, high cheekbones, expressive wide eyes, and an infectious smile with inviting voluptuous lips. Excessively handsome, at first glance the Ensign knew the sailor was destined to be an officer's boy. His boy. Snapping to attention as the officer enters the stateroom, the handsome sailor is freshly showered, naked, and draped in youthful perfection. Anxious, concerned that he hasn't shared the Ensign's rack recently, the sailor fears the officer may have acquired another boy or midshipman. "Standing-by as ordered, sir." "At ease sailor." Quickly undressing, sheading his khaki coveralls, the officer embraces Bepler from behind, pressing their warm bodies together. Affectionately kissing the sailor's neck, licking his ear, the Ensign reaches around and gently plays with the boy's erect nipples - little dime-sized morsels. Caressing the sensitive points between his experienced fingers, the officer's hands wander down the taught stomach, over smooth unblemished skin, terminating in a dense nest of pubic hair. "Mmmm... that feels good," as the sailor trembles with the touch. "I've missed you," the Ensign whispers. Aroused, the officer's body radiates the alluring scent of British Sterling cologne, an intoxicating blend of bright citrus, warm woods, amber, and lush moss. Suffusing the stateroom, the rich, full-bodied, and complex earthy fragrance with sophisticated warmth accentuates the Ensign's masculinity. "You smell amazing, sir." Emotionally bonded to his officer, Bepler breathes deeply and absorbs the enticing cologne and pheromones, igniting a profound yearning for physical intimacy. Simmering with desire, he feels the officer's tumid need pressing against his welcoming ass. Bludgeoned by childhood trauma, craving acceptance and affection, the sailor has found friendship and love in the Navy. In a moment of clarity, looking to consummate their relationship and fend off other opportunistic sailors, Bepler musters considerable courage and makes a seminal decision. "Sir, you... you can do it," bravely offering his most precious gift. "W... what?" asks the distracted Ensign. "You know... if you want," as Bepler presses his ass against the officer's erection. As government property, Bepler understands that his enlisted ass belongs to the Navy. And any commissioned officer has the right to utilize him in the best interest of national defense. Fortunately, he's Ensign Rozo's boy, and therefore, per naval etiquette, off limits to other gentlemen. "Oh... umm, really?" "Yes sir, you can have me. If you want." Surprised by the unexpected offer, the Ensign contemplates Bepler's gorgeous ass - soft and sensuous, enticing and inviting. If he wants? In truth, as a commissioned officer, he should have already exercised his congressionally bestowed prerogative and forcibly taken the boy. Harboring affection for the sailor he resists his baser predatory urges. Safeguarding Bepler's innocence, Rozo has redirected his aggressiveness towards other insignificant bottom dwellers on the food chain, forcefully using them for release from the hardwired biological imperative to plant seed. If he wants? That's ridiculous... of course he wants. A romantic, the Ensign has envisioned an idyllic setting for their union. Entwined on a secluded Caribbean beach, the warm seductive ultramarine surf caresses their naked bodies as sunset's last golden rays reflect in Bepler's expressive eyes. Lost in passionate desire, savoring the sensuous pleasure of their embrace, Rozo presses up inside the sailor and takes possession of his soul. Unfortunately, the next port call isn't scheduled for another four weeks, and Bepler's offer is irresistible. Being only human, beholden to fortune and fate, the Ensign is consumed by the undeniable temptation and his resolve to wait rapidly weakens and suddenly evaporates. "Have... have you done it before?" the officer whispers. "No sir, never," the sailor responds nervously. Oh dear god, sweet unadulterated virgin sea-pussy! Ascending the dizzy peak of anticipatory wanting, with elevated heart rate, the Ensign grows lightheaded, trembling like leaves on a quaking aspen. Eager to explore the pristine territory, he imagines the intense pleasure of irrevocably claiming the boy's cherry. "You know it will hurt some, right?" "Yes, sir. I've watched other sailors and midshipmen take it." During his stint aboard Independence Bepler has observed many predators subjugate and utilize young sailors and midshipmen. Dominant alpha males, without thought or concern for their prey's discomfort, delight in showing-off for appreciative shipmates. Establishing new or confirming existing reputations, they brutally thrust balls deep inside inadequately prepared orifices, leaving a wake of decimated and distraught pussy-boys. "And after that you still want it?" "I'm frightened, but I've dreamed about taking it from you, sir." The sailor isn't the only dreamer on this desperate voyage. Ever since noticing Bepler's enticing ass while ascending the aft escalator to combat an 03-level fire in the shipyard, the Ensign has been plagued with wild imaginings and nightly phantasmagoric visions... Freudian manifestations of desperate subconscious desires. The air is charged with expectancy as the officer's blood engorged erection presses insistently against the plush gift, impatiently demanding consummation of the union. "Who owns this enlisted ass, sailor?" "You sir." Addressing the matter of lubrication, Ensign Rozo applies some MIL-L-46017 oil to his fingers. The high quality machine tool lubricating oil prevents slide way stick-slip, facilitating smooth and precise drilling, milling, and grinding operations. Navigating in restricted waters, the officer's inquisitive fingers carefully explore Bepler's channel. Spreading the boy open, reaching his destination, cajoling the reluctant slot, he lubricates, manipulates, and dilates the sailor's inherently frightened ring. "How does that feel, Bepler?" "Umm... strange, but good, sir." Surrendering himself to the officer's administrations, Bepler spreads his legs as fingers slide deep inside, spreading the lubrication, massaging the silky-smooth walls and prostate gland. Rozo's other hand gently strokes the sailor's erection, rubbing the leaking juices around the blood engorged head. "Oh sir I'm close. Request permission to blow tubes." "Negative sailor, permission denied." Blowing tubes, the engineering procedure for removing soot from boiler tubes utilizing 300-psi steam through rotary blowers with multi-nozzle elements, is an extremely messy procedure. Producing clouds of fine black soot covering the flight deck, aircraft, and everything downwind, the permission of senior officers - the Chief Engineer, Air Boss, and OOD, is required before accomplishment. Euphemistically, the term also refers to a sailor jettisoning jam. Tugging firmly downward on Bepler's heavily laden balls, preventing premature ejaculation, the officer brings the sailor back from the dangerous precipice. Marching him to the officer's rack, he presses downward, and the sailor descends willingly. Spreading Bepler out on the luxurious cotton sheets, Rozo admires the boy's vivacious eyes, inviting voluptuous lips, smooth unblemished skin stretched over taut muscles, generous genitalia, curvaceous thighs, and sensuous feet. The flawless creamy white skin reminds him of the reclining marble statue of the Greek youth Hyacinth, sculptured by François Joseph Bosio, housed in the Musée du Louvre. "You look amazing," as he examines the erotic ephebic boy. According to Greek mythology, Hyacinth, a beautiful young boy and lover of Apollo, the radiant archery god, was also greatly admired by Zephyr, the god of the West Wind. Jealous that the boy preferred Apollo, Zephyr blew a discus, striking, and killing the boy. Grief stricken Apollo, made the flower hyacinth (modern day iris) from the boy's spilled blood, his tears staining the delicate petals. With clarity of purpose, Rozo positions the sailor and takes residence atop his beloved boy, chest-to-chest, heart-to-heart, like Apollo upon Hyacinth, as tears of joy fall, wetting Bepler's face. Staring into Bepler's eyes, penetrating the boy's soul, impaling him with his power, the officer leans forward, and presses against the sailor's parted lips. Entwined, kissing passionately, stealing Bepler's breath, thrusting his tongue inside, he rapes the boy's willing mouth. "Mmmm...," the sailor moans, flush with desire. "Tell me what you want," the officer teases, licking the boy's face. "You know sir, I... I want you inside me." Taking command, the Ensign lifts Bepler's compliant legs, presses down on his muscular thighs, spreads him open, rotates his hips, and folds the sailor in half... his knees pressed to his chest. "Ask for it like a US Navy sailor," the officer playfully demands. "Ummm... fuck me." "WHAT did you say, sailor?" Rozo questions, using his command voice. "Sir, very respectfully request permission to be fucked, sir!" Gathering courage, Bepler trembles involuntarily with unbearable anticipation, betraying excited helplessness. As an officer's boy he knew this moment was inevitable... but he never envisioned begging for its accomplishment, happily offering his masculinity for consumption. "Very well, permission granted. Standby to be boarded." "Aye, aye, sir." It's time, and they both know it. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Walking forward through Hanger Bay 1, ascending two starboard inclined ladders, navigating through passageways and watertight hatches, BMSA Punderson enters the ship's focsle, 02-H-0-Q. Highly decorated with nautical iconography and brightwork, the focsle is a traditional ceremonial area where reenlistments, retirements, and award presentations are held. Its primary function, however, is for mooring and anchoring the ship... housing capstans, anchor chains, line, and various bits and chocks. Secluded in the port quarter is Deck Department's 1st Division Office, 02-19-4-Q. Taking a deep breath, Punderson apprehensively knocks on the non-watertight door. "Enter," responds Lieutenant Jamal Howard, 1st Division Officer. The cramped office, unadorned and austere, is formed by the conjunction of longitudinal frames, a non-watertight transverse bulkhead, and shell plating. A ubiquitous double bulb fluorescent fixture, flickering off-white light, is suspended above a gray Steelcase double pedestal metal desk. "Reporting as ordered, sir." "Ah, yes Punderson..." Relatively fresh seafood, residing near the bottom of the military food chain, the sailor performs manual labor... heaving mooring lines, connecting shots of anchor chain, and working with 350 lb. detachable links, swivels, and other ground tackle. Muscle and blind obedience, the ginger boy has broad shoulders, massive biceps and triceps, a wide muscular chest with solid smooth pectorals, and rippling abdominals under tight pink-white skin. "...stand at parade rest sailor." With a snap in his deference and sincerity in the submission, hands behind his back and feet spread shoulder width apart, Punderson is on display for his superior. The sailor's well-worn paint-splattered dungarees, conforming to the contours of the prominent package, leave nothing to the imagination. "I've received a report chit initiated by BM1 Sanders." "Shit...," the anxious sailor uncontrollably utters. By signing an enlistment contract, sailors surrender their civil law rights and voluntarily accept military authority and jurisdiction delineated under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Violations of Navy Regulations and the UCMJ by personnel are reportable on form NAVPERS 1626/7, Report and Disposition of Offense(s). The report chit, delineating charges and specifications against a sailor, is the first step in the military judicial system. "You've been charged with an Article 91 infraction." UCMJ Art. 91. Insubordinate Conduct Toward a Noncommissioned Officer or Petty Officer. Any enlisted member who (1) strikes or assaults a warrant officer, noncommissioned officer, or petty officer, while that officer is in the execution of his office; (2) willfully disobeys the lawful order of a warrant officer, noncommissioned officer, or petty officer; or (3) treats with contempt or is disrespectful in language or deportment toward a warrant officer, noncommissioned officer, or petty officer while that officer is in the execution of his office; shall be punished as a court-martial may direct. Aboard large combatants, division officers are responsible for investigating alleged offenses by their subordinates. Determining disposition, wielding absolute power, LT Howard can either squelch or forward the report chit to Legal for processing and CO's Non-Judicial Punishment. "Did you disobey a lawful order issued by BM1 Sanders?" "Umm... not exactly sir," prevaricates the cautious sailor. Interrogating Punderson, confronting him with inconsistencies, eyewitness contradictions, and irrefutable evidence, the LT enjoys watching the hapless boy squirm. An appreciative spectator, he applies additional pressure upon the miserable sailor, as the noose slowly closes. "And did you call the BM1 a fucking cocksucker?" "Umm... well sir, he is... and everyone knows it!" The truth being inconsequential, as the division's senior Boatswain's Mate, the BM1 is entitled to all the respect, rights, and privileges associate with his pay grade and position. It's a military aphorism - respect the uniform, if not the man. "Well, that's most unfortunate." "Please sir, don't process the chit. I'll do anything you want. I swear!" Unfolding as planned, the officer delights in the possibilities presented by the desperate sailor. The authoritative lieutenant enjoys hunting, subjugating, and emasculating unsuspecting straight sailors - especially ginger boys... his favorite flavor, transforming them into sea-pussy. "Hmm... perhaps we can reach an understanding," the LT offers with a sly smile. Underway, many unofficial punishments exist. Besides creative EMI, many junior sailors willingly provide sexual services to their superiors to preclude Mast and the associated deleterious consequences. Demonstrating contrition, cock sucking... a well-established nautical shibboleth, is a particularly efficacious concession. "Yes... yes... anything!" The shrewd officer smiles with satisfaction. Walking slowly around the sailor, examining him from every angle, savoring the erotic potential, he confidently imagines taking extensive liberties with the boy's ass. Aroused, his erection expands and struggles for quarters inside the constricting khaki trousers. "Are you sure Punderson?" "Yes sir," responds the relieved sailor, unaware he's already trapped. Several days ago over lunch in the wardroom, LT Howard and Ensign Rozo successfully negotiated a temporary exchange of personnel: Punderson to Repair Division for a week in exchange for 24-hours with Midshipman 1/c Hopkins - the stunning admiral's kid. It's a win-win situation for the officers. For the sailor and midshipman, not so much. Before completing the transaction, however, he decides to exercise his prerogative and fuck Punderson. Manipulating circumstances for entertainment, conspiring with the BM1, he facilitates the duplicity, virtually ensuring the sailor's insubordination and a predictable resolution. "You have an amazing ass, sailor." Profound silence fills the compartment. Suddenly sailing in dangerous waters, the grin evaporates from Punderson's face as the stunned sailor immediately understands the officer's calculated comment. The implicit offer - his ass for favorable report chit adjudication - is an unexpected price for resolution of his transgression. "Oh... umm... perhaps I could perform EMI or...umm, provide another service sir?" he desperately begs, attempting to avoid the terrible consequences of his indiscretion. Floundering, his fate hanging precariously in the balance, Punderson perspires profusely and exudes the alluring and attractive scent of Old Spice Cologne. Rich and classic, the timeless fragrance, a perennial favorite among sailors, is a blend of bright citrus, warm flowers, rich vanilla, and cedar wood. "Service? What do you mean sailor?" Although fully anticipating the counteroffer, LT Howard nevertheless feigns ignorance, enjoying the sailor's rapidly increasing distress. Partial to groveling white boys, the authoritative officer forces the chagrinned sailor to explicitly beg for the privilege of sucking his superior. "Umm... you know, could I umm...," the flushed sailor stammers. Completing a required turn over-the-barrel, obediently performing his duty with commendable dedication, Punderson has serviced countless shipmates. Although a consumer of pedestrian enlisted jam, he's never enjoyed a hot meal from a commissioned officer. "Could I suck your cock instead?" the sailor implores sheepishly. Allegiant to the military chain-of-command, functioning through work center supervisors, junior sailors infrequently speak directly with officers. Inexperienced, trampling over proper protocol, Punderson unprofessionally employs the vernacular of enlisted men. Accustomed to respectful articulation with a subservient disposition, the LT is irritated by Punderson's temerity and crude informality. An officer and gentleman, accorded a privileged status by an act of Congress, he insists on being addressed accordingly. Overstepping the bounds of punctilio, the consequences are immediate. "What did you say sailor?" excoriates the LT. Immediately realizing his error, chastened by the officer's rebuke, desperately hoping to defuse the perilous situation, Punderson begs for the privilege of blowing the authoritative lieutenant. "Please sir, very respectfully request permission to service you, sir!" Searching the officer's face for compassion, finding none, he's filled with hopelessness. Having observed numerous dominant alpha males subjugate inferior shipmates, he recognizes the aggressive hunger in the Lieutenant's eyes - like a predator staring down prey. "Permission denied. That's insufficient compensation for insubordination." "Oh. But... but... I'm not gay sir," the shocked sailor whimpers. At sea, sexual interactions take many forms. Contextual instead of universal, gender identification is fluid, defined more by desire than biology... where one sailor becomes the object of affection and property of another more dominant sailor or officer, transforming the strict male/ female paradigm. Aggressively hunted, receiving salacious solicitations, Punderson's natural inclination is to relentlessly defend his masculinity. Fighting off persistent shipmates, he hopes to complete his enlistment without enduring the humiliation of being brutally stuffed up the ass. It's a laudable but unrealistic goal, however, especially aboard Independence with its predatory and opportunistic crew. Every sailor understands that actions have consequences. Disobedience, insubordination, and other UCMJ indiscretions must be aggressively resolved to maintain good order and discipline. Naval life isn't for the faint hearted, and significant sacrifices are frequently required to accomplish mission objectives. "Of course you're not gay, Punderson." Enjoying carnal familiarity with trollops, the sailor is a healthy heterosexual. If he were gay, the officer would have no interest in him. After all, who wants to traverse a well-trodden path? Unquestionably, the ultimate pleasure resides in conquering a straight sailor, shattering his confidence, obliterating his pride, domesticating his spirit, and stealing his masculinity. "It's your choice, sailor," advises the obdurate LT. Not wanting to face the CO again, already serving under a suspended reduction in paygrade for indulging a fondness for recreational cannabis, Punderson is without viable alternatives. Understanding negotiations are over, poised at the edge of the abyss, the distraught sailor makes a terrible life-altering decision and takes the unavoidable plunge. Consummating the Faustian Bargain, unconditionally surrendering his most valuable commodity, Punderson accepts emasculation and the ancillary ramifications. "Oh... okay sir," the devastated sailor whispers. "Excellent," the LT proclaims. Inordinately pleased, intoxicated with the pungent perfume of despair suffusing the compartment, the officer trembles with the unbearable pleasure of dominating the defenseless sailor. Savoring the moment, it's a beautiful thing when a hunting expedition produces tangible results. "Strip." With eyes distant and unblinking, Punderson removes his blue chambray shirt, unfastens the web belt buckle, and unzips his dungarees. Pushing the worn trousers to the deck, the sailor stands stoically at attention with his meaty pink cock, red velvet ball bag, and plush ass on display for his superior. "Magnificent." On his right arm is a traditional tattoo - two admiralty anchors crossed at 90 degrees, a central shank and crown with flukes at the bottom, and shackle and stock mounted on top. Superstitious, the tattoo ensures safe voyages, stability, and protection from adversity. "Bend over the desk." A product of the military crucible, slave to his training, the sailor obediently descends across the sacrificial altar. Like an ancient priest arranging an offering to the gods, the LT carefully positions the boy - spreading his legs, lifting his ass, rotating his hips, and ensuring proper alignment. "Who owns this ass, sailor?" "You sir," the disconsolate boy responds. Exercising imperium, the officer crosses the threshold and takes command of the sailor. Feasting on the perfectly proportioned ass, massaging the alluring creamy pink-white cheeks, admiring the innate perfection, he anticipates the exquisite sensation of fucking the delectable boy. Maximizing the indignity, he orders Punderson to reach back and spread himself open, revealing the frightened orifice, small and defenseless. Exposed and utter vulnerable, the nauseous sailor is immensely embarrassed, his face burning with a lifetime's worth of humiliation and shame. "Awesome. You're going to be a great fuck." Disdaining laborious preparations, employing a minuscule amount of lubrication, running calloused fingers around the quivering ring, the LT navigates the restricted channel and commences the assault. "This is going to hurt... and not just at the beginning. But I'll enjoy it... and that's what matters," the brutally honest officer explains. Utilizing force, the fingers breach the sailor's last line of defense and stretch the terrified sphincter. Dominated like a freshman schoolgirl behind the bleachers by members of the the varsity football team, Punderson passively accepts the officer's exploratory manipulations. "What are you sailor?" "Sea... sea-pussy," acknowledges the broken sailor, drowning in his new reality. Upon completion of the ultimate act of submission, the stigmata readily apparent to shipmates, scuttlebutt will quickly spread his shameful secret. By relinquishing his masculinity, the sailor will be aggressively targeted by other predators. "And what do you want me to do, sailor?" "F... fuck... fuck me, sir," he responds, choking back tears. Departing the realm of normal boys, forfeiting his masculine birthright, the devastated sailor's exclusive heterosexual world is ending. Arriving just in time, BM1 Sanders enters the division office. Extracting and stroking his cock, he violently bitch slaps Punderson, and stuffs it inside the stunned sailor's mouth. "Who's the cock sucker now?" he laughs. Flooded with endorphins, initiating the ultimate act of domination, the LT violently forces his rapacious ebony cock through the overwhelmed pink ring. Vitiating the pristine landscape, staking claim to Punderson's masculinity, it's clearly another fine Navy day for the commissioned officer. For Punderson, not so much. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Below decks in Ensign Rozo's stateroom, experiencing a deep emotional connection, staking claim to HT3 Bepler's masculinity, the officer is ready to commence the ultimate act of love. Embracing his destiny, making no attempt to resist, the sailor is on his back, knees up and spread wide apart, hips rotated, lubricated, and dilated. Kneading the boy's amazing ass, pulling the cheeks apart, the officer is aroused by the pristine landscape and unblemished pink hole. "It's beautiful," Rozo whispers, mesmerized by the sight. Anxious, Bepler understands that he will be momentarily mounted by his superior - a commissioned officer of the United States Navy. The gentleman, accorded special rights and privileges, will utilize the enlisted sailor as congress undoubtedly intended. "Okay, sailor it's time. I'm coming aboard." "Aye, aye, sir." Ensuring proper alignment, pressing forward against the alacritous but nervous sailor, the officer shifts colors and gets underway. Held tightly, Bepler moans uncontrollably as the officer pushes insistently against the intractable orifice. "This might sting a little." Feeling the relentless pressure, the sphincter struggles to retain structural integrity. The lubricating oil, however, performs per military specifications... and the fitting slowly yields to superior force. Silently asking for forgiveness, Rozo suddenly thrusts forward and bursts through the aperture. "Aauggggghhh," Bepler cries, stunned by the violent breaching. "I'm in," the officer needlessly announces. Tensing in agony, his countenance conveying intense pain, Bepler intakes a sharp breath as tears stream down his contorted face. The sailor's clutching ring instinctively spasms and squeezes the Ensign's cock... vainly trying to expel the massive marauder. "That wasn't too bad. You okay?" "Y... yes sir," the brave sailor responds, clearly lying. The boy's involuntary muscle contractions feel wonderful for the officer - for the sailor, not as much. Shocked, struggling to accommodate the blood-engorged glans and shaft, the brutal truth immediately registers on Bepler: getting fucked hurts like all hell! "Good. Now relax and push out." Rozo forces the first few thick inches up inside the boy. "Oh god it's so big. Please go slow," the sailor begs. Focused, grunting and gritting his teeth, clutching the sheets in his hands, spreading is legs wider to facilitate penetration, Bepler is determined to transcend the excruciating and exquisite pain. "I know you can take it. Just open that sweet hole." "Please sir... please give me a moment." Resisting the biological imperative to drive balls deep inside, fighting the strong undeniable urge to slam fuck the sailor, Rozo provides Bepler time for acclimation. Licking the sailor's tears, the saltiness resonating on his tongue, he luxuriates in the intense tightness. "Of course," briefly halting the advancement. "Tell me when you're ready." "Yes sir. Thank you." After a few minutes, mustering his courage, the sailor pushes back gingerly, signaling he's prepared to recommence the shafting. Locked in the physical joining, flames of desire consume the Ensign as drops of perspiration descend upon the sailor's heaving chest. Rocking gently fore and aft, displaying commendable compassion, Rozo slowly advances more of his avaricious shaft through the boy's aperture, over the prostate, and around several bends and constrictions, stretching and straightening the malleable passageway. "You got most of it, just a few more inches." "I... I don't think I can take anymore," Bepler panics. Exceeding perceived limitations, breathing rhythmically, Bepler pushes outward, momentarily releasing the death grip. Sensing an opportunity, gravity lends assistance as the officer descends the last few inches, bottoming out completely inside the sailor, utterly filling him. "Aauggggghhh," Bepler cries, shocked by the fullness. "That's it, you've got it all." Housed completely inside the sailor, the triumphant officer savors the moment's perfection. Moist and tight, an indescribable delight, there's nothing like it... the overwhelming pleasure of owning an irreplaceable enlisted cherry and being fully sheathed inside glorious sea-pussy. "How does that feel, Bepler?" "Oh god so full, like I've got the main mast stuffed up my ass." Placing his hand upon the boy's lower abdomen, rubbing the extended tummy, Rozo feels himself protruding from inside the sailor. Amazingly, the outline of the thick 8-incher with prominent mushroom head is discernable under Bepler's stretched skin. "You feel that, sailor?" placing the kid's hand on the swollen abdomen. "Yes sir," responds the shocked boy. "That's me inside you," said Rozo with immense pride. Like Hyacinth mounted by Apollo, the sailor is fully impaled upon his officer. Fulfilling prophecy, the immortals celebrate the inexorable union of man and boy. Underway, making way, Rozo slowly traverses back and forth inside the serpentine passageway, savoring the amazing feeling, the tangible expression of their special relationship. "Oh man, this is awesome... so tight." United in ecstasy, the initial searing pain transforms into pleasure. Dancing in the dark, waltzing in the wonder, Bepler closes his eyes as the Ensign serenades him with long deep strokes. Penetrated to unfathomable depths, experiencing unimagined pleasure, panting with excitement, the sailor finally understands the profound joy of total submission. "Mmmmm... fuck me, sir. Fuck me." "Very well," as the officer rings-up all ahead full. Physically and emotionally bonded, locked in a passionate intertwining of limbs, immersed in a wondrous erotic rapture, consuming each other's desire, acting and acted upon, the dancers are indistinguishable from the dance. The hypnotic symphony of moans, groans, labored breathing, squelching lubricant, and rhythmic collision of sweaty flesh reverberates off the stateroom's bulkheads and propagates down the passageway. "What are you sailor?" the officer asks teasingly. "Sea-pussy, sir. Your sea-pussy," Bepler responds with justifiable pride. Like a jockey mounted upon a thoroughbred, the Ensign rides the beautiful chestnut filly with grace, power, and speed. Controlling the pace, changing angles, stretching the malleable chute, thrusting fore and aft, down the backstretch, he rounds the clubhouse turn and heads for the finish line. Bepler grunts as the officer's cock expands - growing thicker, longer. Breathing faster, lurching forward, thrusting deeper, the Ensign inseminates the sailor, spilling his munificent seed up inside the enraptured boy. Simultaneously, Bepler blows tubes... jettisoning chunky white jam on his chest. Transformed by the inextricable union, everything changes. Descending the pinnacle of pleasure, gently brushing the hair from Bepler's adoring eyes, smiling tenderly, Rozo kisses the wondrous sailor. "That was amazing," declares the ecstatic officer. "Thank you sir for being my first," said the blissful sailor. Holding Bepler tightly, the exhausted officer breathes deeply and within minutes contently falls asleep while dreaming of spending eternity with the sailor, a very special officer's boy. His boy. In the Navy, rank is everything. And life as an officer is sweet; for a beloved officer's boy it's pretty sweet too. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, shipboard or ashore, are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com