Boys of Aurora

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions, customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature, or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). Please e-mail me at paradegi@rogers.com

The Phantom Of Aurora: Chapter 9

The sun was an angry orb of fire beating relentlessly down on the firing ranges of CFB Comox, Waves of heat shimmered across the wide, barren fields that bordered the isolate ranges and the red warning flags that hung from the poles bordering the firing ranges were limp, unmoving squares of blood-coloured cloth.

The ranges were long, open, oblong-shaped expanses of sun dried grass. Each range was bordered on two sides by high, earthen, grass-covered berms, each berm backed, for safety, by three feet of reinforced concrete. Separating the ranges from the wide, driftwood-strewn beach was an additional berm faced with thick, bullet pocked, concrete walls. This continuous line of earthen and concrete berms was, like its counterparts 50 feet inland, 30 feet high.

Built into the base of each landside berm was a recessed, open-air bunker, called the Butts, shelter for the ratings that tended the large, upright metal frames into which the paper targets were set and raised. Each target, a wooden framed, four by four bulls-eyes, were handraulically raised and lowered by the Butts Crew during live-fire exercises. Directly in front of the seaward berms, across from the butts were additional sets of metal frames where large, man-sized targets could be set for submachine gun firing exercises.

Directly behind the ranges was the Range Hut, a long, two-storied, rusty red painted wooden structure housing on the bottom level the change room, lunch room and heads used by the Range Safety Officer and his staff. The upper level, open to the air, was the observation deck for the Warrant Officer in charge of the ranges, and the control panel for the pop-up, man-size targets that were set in shallow trenches at 100, 200, 500 and 1000-yard intervals down the length of each of the four ranges. Behind the Range Hut was a narrow gravel road separating the rifle ranges from the small arms ranges, miniatures of the larger ranges, 25 x 25 yards square, fours in number and, like the rifle ranges, separated by high, earthen berms.

The ranges had been designed to be efficient and utilitarian and the amenities for those using the ranges were minimal: portable toilets and water coolers filled from time to time from a tanker truck sent out from Base Supply and, a great boon, corrugated washtubs filled with ice and fruit juices.

As the morning progressed and the searing heat of the sun settled over the ranges, it soon became apparent the too little had be provided for too many and by Stand Easy the water coolers were empty, the washtubs empty of juice and filled with tepid, fast evaporating water. The portable toilets were overflowing and reeked with the acrid smell of sun baked human waste.

Shortly after Stand Easy Doc drove a large, boxy, field ambulance onto the range. He was accompanied by Matron, a vision in too-tight combats, which led Cory to wonder aloud how she was able to breathe and the Range Safety Officer, a tall, lean, beak-nosed Master Warrant Officer seconded from the PPCLI to ask Andy if she came equipped with a whip and stiletto heels for her combat boots. Doc took one look at the empty coolers and washtubs, and a huge sniff of the facilities, and promptly raised holy hell with the RSO. He threatened to have the RSO charged with endangering the health of minors.

The RSO at first tried to bluster his way out a situation that was not of his making, but gave up after Doc added corruption of morals to his litany of sins, which charge totally confused the poor man until Doc pointed to a line of cadets in the field behind the range hut, standing with legs apart, pants unzipped, the front of their underpants pulled down, generously watering the already dead grass.

Several acrimonious telephone calls later the water truck reappeared, followed by another field ambulance with two Medical Assistants from the Base Hospital, and a work party with a field marquee tent. Once the tent was up, and the dust had settled, both figuratively and literally, everybody agreed that Doc was almost as good as Chef when he got going, though some of the cadets believed that Doc's vocabulary of swear words didn't hold a candle to Chef's. At least Doc's vaudeville imitation had broken the routine and made the cadets forget for a few moments the oppressive heat and their sweating bodies.

Except for the heat and the gagging humidity, the morning had gone better than expected. With two ranges in use the firing had progressed at a good pace. Each cadet was required to fire three serials with the .303 rifles, prone, kneeling, and standing. The Ammunition Yeomen, Matt, Brian and Dylan, under Val's direction kept the magazines loaded and distributed. The Butt Parties, one under Kyle's command, the other under Andy's, handled the bulky targets and marking sticks efficiently.

At lunchtime, with the cadets all grumbling happily, The Gunner settled down at one of the ammunition tables set up in the deep shade of the Range Hut, and began correlating the morning's shooting scores. As he read through the score sheets The Gunner found some very surprising results. Harry, it seemed, was a deadly shot as were, of all the cadets, Randy and Joey. Almost as deadly was Brian, which The Gunner found very surprising.

Harry and the Brats The Gunner could understand. All three boys lived on farms, where hunting was a secondary way of life. Each boy from the age of five or so had been taught to shoot by their fathers or uncles.

Every fall Harry, sometimes alone, but more often with his brothers, would roam his father's land, high-powered rifle in hand, searching for moose and elk. Randy and Joey, as joined at the hip at home as they were in AURORA, though not permitted ever to go out alone, still managed to spend many happy days hunting ground birds and, during the migration season, Canada Geese and ducks.

As The Gunner was pondering just how Brian had managed to score so highly Tyler came trucking by, looking for food rather than companionship.

Tyler had had a very busy morning. He had first talked to Number One, who had come aboard at the ungodly hour of 0550. Like all members of the Canadian Armed Forces, he was required to qualify once a year on small arms. After obtaining the Executive Officer's endorsement, Tyler had disciplined Little Big Man. Following that he had soothed Steve, who did not appreciate having boots thrown at him. From the Gunners Barracks Tyler had gone to the Gunroom where he had dragged Cory and Todd out of bed, to accompanying curses, threats and scurrilous remarks concerning his legitimacy, the size of his genitals, and his alleged fondness for sheep.

When all was said and done Tyler had missed breakfast. He had eaten his lunch, which was delicious, on the bus coming to the Ranges. By lunchtime he was ravenous and lunchless. He had thrown himself on the mercy of Val, his friend, his helpmate, his "buddy in good times and bad", and had been rudely told to piss off. The Twins, still smarting at their rude awakening, offered two pieces of prime Canadian sausage, which Matt, who was sitting with them, thought disgusting. Matt offered Tyler a sandwich, which the Master at Arms did not have the heart to take. Joey and Randy, seeing Tyler on the prowl, quickly retired to the safety of the ambulances, preferring the company, and safety, of Matron to the depredations of the Master at Arms.

Defeated, Tyler had wandered off to the firing line where he saw The Gunner sitting at one of the tables. More importantly he saw The Gunner's box lunch sitting on the bench beside him. Deliberately Tyler sat beside the cardboard box containing The Gunner's lunch. He casually lifted the box and placed it on the table. After asking what The Gunner was doing, and nodding approval at the scores, Tyler began to drum absently on the top of the box lunch with his fingers.

The Gunner glanced sideways at Tyler's drumming hand, and grinned inwardly. Tyler, who was nice kid, was obviously working up the courage to bum some lunch, which The Gunner was prepared to give him. Ordinarily The Gunner obeyed the prime directives of the Navy: never volunteer, always eat what you could when you could, and always visit the heads before going on Watch. Today however was an exception. It was simply too damned hot to even think of food. Even in the shade of the Range Hut the air was stifling and leaden with humidity. The Gunner's light green shirt - he refused to wear combats, and would have been drawn on the rack before being caught dead in the work dress uniform which, he maintained, made him look and feel as if he should be pumping gas at the local Esso station - was sodden, the synthetic fabric clinging to his back and chest. His trousers and underwear were just as soaked with sweat. Every time he moved his pores seem to open and fresh rivers of perspiration coursed from his armpits and groin.

The Gunner was not immune to the heat, nor was he immune to the effects the heat had on the human body. He found Tyler's drumming annoying. "Tyler, did you come over here because you think I am a sterling chap and want to spend some quality time with me or do you have something ulterior in mind?" he asked testily. Tyler grinned sheepishly and ducked his head. "You wouldn't care to take pity on a hungry young Sea Cadet, would you?" he asked.

"Did you not eat breakfast?"

"No. What with trying hard not to lose my temper and yell at Little Big Man, and then meeting with the XO and a few other things, I missed breakfast. So I ate my lunch on the bus coming in."

The Gunner shook his head and laughed. "You guys will never learn. Never miss a chance to eat or piss." He gestured toward his lunch. "Go ahead, fill your boots."

"Gee, thanks," replied Tyler enthusiastically as he reached for the box lunch. "I owe you one."

The Gunner nodded absently and then swore softly. Beads of sweat had dropped from his forehead onto the score sheets. "I've half a mind to tell Kyle to pack this in," he said, waving toward the range. "It's getting too fucking hot!" He looked at Tyler. "How are the troops?"

"Cranky," replied Tyler as he took a huge bite of his sandwich. "Sweating like pigs, pissing like racehorses and definitely cranky!"

The Gunner chuckled. "I really can't blame them. Trust us to hold a Range Shoot in what has got to be the middle of a heat wave!"

"They'll survive," said Tyler unsympathetically. "Most of them have sense enough to find a patch of shade."

"Most of them?"

Tyler nodded toward a distant figure at the far end of the row of ranges. Little Big Man was lying against the sloping end of the far berm. "They were all told to stay out of the sun."

"Oh, well, to loosely paraphrase Noel Coward: 'Mad dogs and Little Big Men go out in the midday Sun'."

"I prefer 'you can't tell a Heinz pickle nothin'," returned Tyler. He offered The Gunner the piece of pie that came with the sandwiches. "Cherry pie?" The Gunner declined the pie with a small shake of his head. Tyler shrugged and began eating again. "I used to feel sorry for him, but not anymore," he said as he dusted pie crumbs from the front of his combats. "With luck his head will catch on fire and to be honest there is not a Man Jack around here who would rush over and piss on him to put the fire out."

"That's pretty hard, Tyler," replied The Gunner. He stared directly at the Master at Arms.

Tyler returned the stare. "Yeah, it is, but after what he's done . . ." He shook his head and reached for the can of juice in the box lunch. "This morning I told him that he was a bad seed. I meant it then, and I mean it now. I don't understand why he is, I just know he is."

The Gunner cocked his head and gave Tyler a quizzical look. "You've changed, Tyler. You've become harder."

Tyler could not disagree. "All being Mister Nice Guy gets you is a kick in the balls, Gunner. Paul Greene is a perfect example of that. He won't change because he doesn't want to change." He stared levelly at The Gunner. "He's not worth the effort, Gunner. I've seen how you interact with the cadets, and how they interact with you. In a lot of ways you're teaching them how to be better cadets, and I hope, better men. The other cadets are learning because they want to learn. Their minds are open. Paul Greene's mind is closed. Nothing you can say, or do, is going to change him." He stood up and began tidying the table. "I suppose you think that he's a victim?"

The Gunner nodded. "At first, yes, I did." He rummaged through his pockets and found his cigarettes. "Come on, let's walk a bit. There's no smoking on the range."

They left the ranges and walked into the open field beyond. When they were far enough away The Gunner offered a cigarette to Tyler, who declined politely, lit up and then took off his cap. This told Tyler that he could say whatever he liked. Their conversation was between them, and there would be no repercussions, no matter what was said. Tyler also removed his cap.

The Gunner gave Tyler a sideways glance. "Tyler, at first I did think that Paul was a victim, and to be honest, I felt sorry for him as well."

"And now you don't?"

The Gunner shook his head in genuine sadness. "One can only be a victim up to a certain point. After that, one is a victim because that is exactly what one wants to be."

Tyler looked at him, puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

The Gunner smiled and spread his hands. "Tyler, think about it. I have no doubt that Paul was beaten and abused when he was younger. If there is an older sibling, or siblings, they were beaten before him. Matt, as the youngest sibling, is next in a long line of abused and warped kids. You follow me?" Tyler nodded. "Paul ceased to be a victim the minute he raised his fist and helped beat Matt." He shook his head sadly. "I believe he did, and I think you do as well."

"I know Paul finked on Matt when he saw him with a Jewish guy," replied Tyler. He slowly rubbed his chin, thinking. "So, yeah, he was part of that beating. And I saw him last night. Paul was in a killing rage." He laughed sardonically. "Of course, Matt is taller than his brother, and heavier. He was almost beyond control and I wonder what would have happened if the guys hadn't stepped in."

"Doc would have been busy," supplied The Gunner, "and two seats would have been booked on the next plane home." He shook his head. "That would have been a disservice to Matt." He looked at Tyler's questioning face and continued on. "Matt has exercised a great deal of self control. He has had to endure a great deal of abuse in his life. He chooses to endure the abuse because if he did not he would destroy the only thing he has, the only thing his knows."

"His family," interjected Tyler.

"His family," repeated The Gunner with a sad nod of his head. "Matt is a boy who has never had anything other than his family. Last night Matt learned that he has another family, a family that will take care of him when and as needed."

"He certainly looked happy after the guys offered him a home," replied Tyler. He looked thoughtful. "What I don't understand, though, is why he just doesn't blow the whistle on the whole sorry lot!"

"It might be hackneyed, but the phrase 'blood is thicker than water' comes to mind," said The Gunner. "Family ties are like anchor cables, almost impossible to break. Matt is an intelligent boy. He knows that if he goes to the authorities - and I honestly believe Matt knows more than he lets on - he knows that his father will go to jail, and his sisters will end up in foster care, his mother in the street along with Paul." A heavy sigh escaped The Gunner's lips. "Matt might know that what Paul and his father are doing is wrong, but he will not destroy his family."

"So he takes the beatings and keeps his mouth shut!"

"Yes, Tyler, he does. Which is even sadder. Matt, you see, knows that what his father preaches, what Paul preaches, is terribly wrong. He won't allow himself to be indoctrinated with their bullshit and he's prepared to suffer until he can get away from them, which is something he cannot do until he turns 16. The law will not allow him to do otherwise."

"The law does not make Paul Greene stay at home!" snapped Tyler. "Yet he does!"

"Yes, Tyler, he does." The Gunner rolled his cap slowly in his hand. "Paul Greene is old enough to know the difference between right and wrong. He's 16 and can legally leave his home, quit school, go, and there is nothing his father can do about it."

"But he hasn't."

"No, he hasn't, just as he has done nothing to prevent his brother being abused. In fact, he helps in the abuse. He could have reported his father to the child welfare people, told one of his teachers, but he didn't. There are service groups, the Salvation Army is one, who would have helped him, given him shelter, food, clothing, at least taken care of his basic needs. All he had to do was ask."

"He didn't. And he won't." Tyler rolled on his side and began to pluck the dead grass. "This morning, when I talked to him, I started to explain to him, to try to explain to him, what he was losing. He got all lippy and I figured, fuck him. So I gave up. Was I wrong?"

"No, Tyler, you were not wrong." The Gunner placed his hand on Tyler's shoulder.

"You have to understand that Paul Greene is beyond redemption. He is a true believer. He's been indoctrinated with hate and bigotry from the time he could understand. It's all he knows, all he believes in."

Tyler chuckled wryly. "The old 'Give me a man when he's a boy' routine."

The Gunner nodded. "It's worked before. It's worked in Paul's case. Nothing you can say or do, or I can say or do, is going to change him, and no amount of interaction between him and the other cadets will change him."

"And Matt?"

"Tyler, in every culture there are decent human beings who reject the party line. The Gulags are full of them. Good, decent people such as Matt, who see other people as who they are, not what they are. Matt learned through just being with other boys his own age that just because they are black, or Asian, or Jewish, or whatever, they are not automatically deviants or undesirables. He learned to accept or reject people on their merits, just as I did, and as you did."

"Me?" Tyler sat up and scratched his head. "How do you figure that?"

"Easy. Until you joined the Sea Cadets, at the age of 12 or so, you lived the life of an upper middle-class, Christian, white boy. You came from a good home in a good neighbourhood; you went to an exclusive public school. You interacted with boys who all came from basically the same background. But now you have learned that everybody's different."

Tyler laughed heartily. "I have to admit that I did have my eyes opened and had a whole bunch of illusions and stereotypes blown all to rat shit the first time I went to a Sea Cadet camp! And I also have to say nothing could have prepared me for the Twins!"

"They do take some getting used to," returned The Gunner with a laugh. "But the point is that you learned, and Matt learned. Paul refused to learn and because of his refusal I do not consider him a victim. No amount of quotations from Kipling, or hugging him, or patting him on the bum will ever change him."

Tyler snorted. "Patting Little Big Man's bum will get you Mentioned in Dispatches. He'd write home and tell his father that you were trying to molest him." Tyler's demeanour suddenly changed from derision to apprehension as he realized what he had just said.

The Gunner gave him a brief, surprised glance, puzzled at the sudden change in his countenance. Being "Mentioned in Dispatches" was not necessarily a bad thing. In wartime it would get you a gong or a court martial. But why would Tyler use such a phrase when speaking of the detested Little Big Man? A warning bell began ringing deep within The Gunner's brain. Why would Tyler say that Little Big Man would write home and tell his father? The warning bell clanged louder and faster. He looked directly at Tyler. "And just what," he began pointedly, "do you know about Paul Greene writing letters home, Tyler?"

When the implications of The Gunner's question sank in, Tyler coloured. He swallowed hard, realizing that he had just done what all the senior cadets had sworn they would never do: reveal that they knew exactly what Little Big Man was up to.

"I'd like an answer, Tyler. I'd like an answer, now," said The Gunner quietly. If the cadets knew that Little Big Man was deliberately doing everything he could to discredit them, to paint them in false colours, he had to know about it.

Tyler now realized what he had inadvertently done. He mentally cursed himself for his stupidity. His heart began pounding and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. "Caps are off, right?" he asked, knowing that while he was supposedly on safe ground, he really did not know how The Gunner would react to what he was about to hear.

"I know the rules, Tyler," snapped The Gunner impatiently. "Caps are off. Nothing you tell me will ever be repeated or used against you or the other cadets."

"And nothing you say to me will ever be repeated or used against you!" Tyler knew the rules, too.

The Gunner looked stonily at Tyler. "Now that we have established the rules of engagement, spill."

Tyler sat up, drew up his knees and hugged them. "All the senior cadets, me, Val, the Twins, even Phantom, we all know about the letter that Little Big Man's father wrote to SIU."

The Gunner was stunned. He certainly hadn't mentioned the letter to anyone. "And exactly how do you know that?" he asked slowly.

Tyler shrugged. There was no use denying the truth. "When you were talking with Corporal Britnell, the Twins, Harry, Greg and Phantom were sitting on the parade square right below you. They heard everything."

"Jesus!" exploded The Gunner. Phantom knew! The Twins, Harry, Greg, all of them knew! And none of them, including that damned jug eared green-eyed monster had said a word! "Did you plan to tell anyone about it?" he asked tightly.

"No," replied Tyler blandly. "None of us could see any point in telling you, or the officers. It would have served no purpose and just gotten us in the rattle for eavesdropping."

"I've done my share of eavesdropping, Tyler, so I'll let that pass." The Gunner paused deliberately. "You said 'Mentioned in Dispatches'. That can mean one or more pieces of correspondence." He gave Tyler a look. "So, young Tyler, just how many dispatches are we talking about?"

Tyler shook his head and smiled thinly. "You don't miss a trick, do you?"

"Not if I can help it."

"There were at least two other letters," began Tyler slowly. "Two that we know of for sure." He had decided to tell everything he knew. "Val and me, we are accused of going into the barracks at night and having our way with the junior cadets, the little ones. Harry's relationship with Stefan, and Greg's with Stephen Tyler, they were mentioned, as was your relationship with Phantom. Need I tell you what Paul thinks about that?"

The Gunner was very calm. He had been foolish to think that Little Big Man's activities could remain secret for any length of time. "Harry's relationship with Stefan aside, nothing is true. The fact that the Twins are gay is well known. I was not aware that there was a relationship between Greg and Stephen Tyler, and unless I am a total failure at judging character I very much doubt that your are given to molesting young boys."

"I am not given to molesting boys of any age," sniffed Tyler with great dignity. Which was a lie, because lately he'd being thinking a lot about . . . Val . . .

"I take it then that everyone knows what is going on?"

"Just the senior cadets," replied Tyler as casually as he could. "We discussed telling you. I made the decision not to." He looked challengingly at The Gunner. "It would have served no purpose and it would have jeopardized a Special Branch investigation. I do not regret making that decision."

"Your decision aside, just how do you know that there were two other letters."

"I read them. Then I destroyed them."

For a brief moment The Gunner debated asking Tyler just how he happened to read two of Little Big Man's letters, and then decided against it. It was all too obvious that the letters would have had to be stolen from the mails, and that was a minefield he did not want to go into. "In all your decision-making did you consider that eventually Little Big Man would be going home? That, um, destroying his letters would only be delaying the inevitable?"

Tyler nodded emphatically. "We know that Little Big Man will shoot his mouth off when he gets home. We assume that his father will complain to SIU and that SIU will send his complaint along to Special Branch, which will deep six it just as it did the first complaint."

The Gunner smiled ruefully. "If my friends have anything to say about it, yes. Harry's relationship with Stefan might present a problem."

Tyler signed heavily. "To be honest, Gunner, I have a problem with that. I have no problem with guys fooling around with other guys. Hell, I went to a boys boarding school and I can tell you with great confidence that after the lights went out a whole lot of the guys went visiting and not to help a buddy conjugate Latin verbs. I also know that if Masters and Johnson are right at least 20, maybe more, of the guys sitting under that tent are gay."

"But you do object to an 18-year-old having sex with a 13-year old, even if the 13-year old was the aggressor? Even though no anal sex was involved?"

"Yes." Before The Gunner could reply Tyler held up his hand. "I know that in the Jewish culture a boy is Bar Mitzvah at 13 and proclaims that he is a man. In some African cultures at 13 a boy is ritually circumcised with a dull knife, handed a spear, and told to go out into the veldt and kill a lion. I accept that in those cultures manhood is conferred at an early age, which I would presume also gives them the privileges of manhood. But in our culture, under our law, an adult is forbidden to have sex with anyone 17 or under. Harry, by having sex with Stefan, even if it was only fellatio, even if Stefan put the moves on Harry first, was wrong. I love Harry. He is one of the finest, and most upright and honest guys I know. But he was wrong to do it."

"Yes, Tyler, Harry was very wrong," replied The Gunner with great sadness. "Like you, I do not approve of such relationships. I might accept that they happen, and I accept that many times both parties are willing partners, but acceptance does not mean approval. I would like to see a boy grow up a little first."

"Gunner, I'm not judging Harry, or Stefan, or any of the other boys. I know that once a guy hits puberty he's little more than a walking hardon. Stefan could no more help falling in love with Harry, or Harry help falling in love with Stefan, than I could help being born white. They are what they are, and because I love Harry, as a friend, and a brother, I accept what he did. It just burns my ass that a little bastard like Paul Greene, or a big bastard like Paul's father, can destroy Harry and there is not a fucking thing I or you can do about it!"

The Gunner stood up, dusted himself off, and extended his hand to Tyler. "I hear concern for Harry, and Greg, and the Twins," said The Gunner as he pulled Tyler to his feet. "Why don't I hear concern for Tyler Benbow?"

Tyler grinned. "Because I am not all that concerned about me. I haven't done anything to be ashamed of or to be afraid about." He looked toward the marquee tent and pointed, indicating the assembled cadets. The Twins were busily teasing Matt, who was finally coming out of his funk. Harry was as usual holding court, entertaining his Sea Puppies. Randy and Joey, having left the not so welcoming arms of Matron, were squabbling. Ray and Kevin were sitting with their backs against the wall of the Range Hut, out of the sun. "I am concerned about those guys, Gunner. I am concerned about AURORA. Those guys over there are my friends. This year, for some reason, maybe because it's my last, I just feel that everything good, everything wonderful, has been gathered together in AURORA." As they walked toward the ranges Tyler continued. "I don't know how to describe it, really, the feelings I have. Oh, I know we fight, and we yell, and all that, but deep down there is this warmth between all the cadets."

"Except for Little Big Man," interjected The Gunner.

"Yes, except for Paul Greene." Tyler took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "He seems determined to tear down everything good about AURORA. I don't understand why he's doing it and I am fucking frustrated that we can't prevent him from doing it! He can, and has, made the wildest accusations against perfectly innocent people - including Val, who is one of the nicest guys you would ever want to meet - and all we can do is sit back and watch him do it!"

"I understand your frustrations. How do you think I feel?" asked The Gunner. "I know that nobody is going around in the middle of the night slipping their hands down the front of the Sea Puppies' Fruit of the Looms."

Tyler almost choked when The Gunner said that. The Gunner's sources of information, while good, had obviously not been visited in the middle of the night by somebody who gave the most wondrous blow jobs and made a guy feel . . . He forced himself to pay attention to what The Gunner was saying. All he needed was to pop a woody in the middle of the Comox Ranges.

" . . . But we can't take rough justice into our own hands, Tyler," The Gunner was saying when Tyler returned to reality. "I know full well that after last night half the troops would have gladly tied an anchor around Paul's neck and thrown him into the middle of the harbour, and then gone to bed and slept like babes."

"They would that," confirmed Tyler. "To be honest, Gunner, it cost me a lot in credibility last night. The guys are angry and they're frustrated, and pissed off that nobody can or will do anything about Paul Greene! We hold back because of this bloody investigation that's going on. If we could just hit him, it sure would help!"

"Well, you can't. I know it's not easy for anybody. I am doing what I can, and so are the people I know."

"In protecting Matt?" Tyler stopped and stared at The Gunner. "You know and I know that sooner or later Matt is going to get it. You know and I know that sooner or later Paul's father will find somebody who will read his fucking letters! Then the shit will hit the fan. And that, Gunner, is what everybody is so afraid about! You can't guarantee that Paul will go away, that his accusations will continue to be ignored, or that there will not be an investigation of Harry, of Greg, of the Twins, or Val or me!"

"No, I cannot," replied The Gunner honestly. "What I can do is make a damned good effort." He seemed to think a moment and then asked, "Tyler, how many empty billets are there, billets that are to the end of the month?" "Off the top of my head? About 15, I think," replied Tyler promptly and wondering what The Gunner was up to.

"I only need one," said The Gunner with a nod. He regarded Tyler. "I need you to buy me some time." He saw the boy's eyes widen slightly and explained. "There are ways to protect Matt when he goes home. Some I have already set in motion. Others, and here is why I am asking a favour of you, require time to set up, time to reconnoitre, to gather assets, and so on. What I need to do, and my contacts need to do, cannot be done overnight or in the time available. Matt needs to stay here a little while longer than he thought he would. To that end I need you to talk him into extending until the last possible day."

Tyler nodded. "Not a problem. He's Weapons Yeoman and every weapon, cartridge, bayonet and magazine has to be accounted for." He smiled conspiratorially. "I'll appeal to his sense of duty. He'll go along with an extension." He shook his head sadly. "Matt also needs a little bit of peace and serenity, I think. I just hope that he doesn't get to dwelling on what is waiting for him when he gets home. We are, by asking him to extend his draft, just postponing the inevitable, Gunner."

"Perhaps," agreed The Gunner. "With luck, and a little serious arm twisting, perhaps not."

Tyler laughed. "It's ironic, you know, that only this morning Paul was all but chomping at the bit, waiting for me to sling his skinny ass onto the next flight out of Comox and here we are plotting ways to keep his brother with us as long as possible. Paul expected us to send him packing, you know."

"Of course he did. If I read him right, he expected you, or Number One, to slam him. By not doing so you reinforced his contempt for you, and the Executive Officer. You also gave him a golden opportunity to continue what he thinks as his work. He will welcome, I think, this opportunity to snoop, and spy."

A devious gleam came into Tyler's blue eyes. "I wonder what he'll do when he finds out that Stuart is assigning him to the Dockyard. The little man won't have an opportunity to snoop anywhere." He snickered. "Two can play the same game, Gunner."

"We must be careful not to arouse his suspicions, Tyler. Paul Greene must never suspect that we are on to his game."

"He won't," said Tyler firmly. "Nobody knows about the letters except Phantom, Greg, the Twins, Val, and me. They all understand the importance of keeping their gates shut."

"Good." The Gunner scratched his chin, once again thinking. "Paul has made some serious accusations, Tyler, and while I expect that we can protect Matt, there still remains you, the Twins, and Harry. You are all on Little Big Man's hit list so, being a careful man . . ." He held out his hand. "Give me your field message book." Tyler handed over the book. "It may very well be that Paul's venom will find a sympathetic ear, or somebody with enough clout to stir up the shit," said The Gunner writing carefully in Tyler's message book. "When and if that happens, I want you to call this number and speak these words." He handed the book to Tyler.

Tyler read what The Gunner had written. "Qui descendunt mare in navibus facientes operationem in aquis multis." He grinned. "Verse 23, Psalm 106, St. Jerome's Vulgate."

"You know it?" asked The Gunner, somewhat surprised.

"Sure." Tyler struck his thumb against his chest. "Ontario Scholar." He read the note again. "Actually, I prefer the King James version." He quoted from memory from the Book of Common Prayer, "Verse 23, Psalm 107: They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters."

The Gunner shook his head, a little awed. "Jesus, you guys never cease to amaze me!"

Tyler laughed. "I am pretty good, actually," he said with a total lack of modesty. "The Twins are better. Cory can quote reams from Caesar's 'Commentarii De Bello Gallico' while Todd is a whiz at Cicero . . ." (he pronounced it 'Kickero') " . . . Val's a little shaky but he can get by. He actually prefers ancient Greek." He shrugged. "When you attend a public school of the Anglican tradition you learn the Classics."

"Silly me, here I was thinking that all you were doing was running a school for counter-intelligence agents!"

"Speaking of which," Tyler held up the message pad. "What happens when I call the number and " . . .go down to the sea in ships . . .?"

"A man will answer. It will always be a man. If you are in trouble, if you need help, money, a lawyer, anything, you call. Say the quotation. The man will know that you are a friend of mine. Whatever your problem, whatever you need, call, and what can be done, will be done." "No questions?"

The Gunner shook his head. "No questions. No obligations. All I ask is your discretion."

Tyler considered this for a few moments. "Why me? Why not the others?"

"Tyler, I won't lie to you. I look upon you, all the senior cadets, as my protégés. You are very soon going to join the Navy. I told you that I chose you for your present position. I did so because I think that there is greatness in you. Because I chose you I made myself responsible for your career." Tyler grinned knowingly. "Every boy needs a rabbi?"

"I'm your rabbi," agreed The Gunner with a grin. He had not told Tyler the whole truth, but now was not the time to begin a recruiting campaign for the Order.

"Will you be a rabbi for Val, and the Twins, for all of us?"

"I'll try to look out for them." He looked pointedly at Tyler. "When the time is right, I shall speak to them. Individually."

Tyler understood. "Which means they will think that only they are part of this, what should I call it, special friendship?"

"That's the way it is. Even Val will not know that you are part of what you called a special friendship. The Twins will know only that they, as a pair, have the telephone number. I long ago learned that when the Twins are involved there are no secrets. Each instinctively knows what the other is thinking."

"I would still like to know why me?"

The Gunner put his cap on his head. "Because of your intelligence, intrepidity and sense of duty. Also because that's the way I want it." As they walked into the tent The Gunner mentally added, "And because you don't need to know that an organization comprised primarily of gay men is trying to recruit you!"

Ray shaded his eyes and watched as The Gunner and Tyler ducked and entered the marquee tent. He had seen them sitting in the middle of the empty field, obviously talking, and was mildly curious. "I wonder what those two are up to," he said to Kevin, who was sitting beside him.

Kevin, his mouth full of chocolate cake, did not bother to look up. He was much more interested in Ray's dessert - a piece of white cake - than he was in what The Gunner and The Master at Arms were up to.

Ray looked at Kevin and made a face. Jesus, the guy was a human Garberator. Not only had Kevin polished off his own lunch, he was steadily working his way through Ray's as well.

"You want your cake?" asked Kevin when he finished his dessert.

Silently Ray handed Kevin the piece of cake, and felt a slight thrill as Kevin's hand touched his. He'd been much too nervous to eat. All he could manage was the carton of milk he was drinking out of. He'd been trying all morning to talk to Kevin about their relationship and this had been the first time they had managed even a small degree of privacy. Kevin on the other hand was, while sweaty, and slightly odourous, as were all the boys, merely hungry. He finished the piece of cake and then rummaged in the devastated cardboard box that had contained his lunch and found an apple. He munched away happily, totally at ease. When he was finished he dropped the apple core into the box and belched loudly.

"God damn, it, Kevin," snapped Ray. His nerves were shot. He'd been fretting and stewing all morning, trying to think of a way to let Kevin know exactly how he felt while at the same time not offending him. And what does Kevin do? He munches and chews at everything that comes within eating range, only interested in filling his gut, like some goat with a tapeworm!

"Hey man, better that end than the other," replied Kevin crudely. He leaned against Ray and slipped his hand under the Ray's bum and began to slowly massage the firm warm flesh encased in the serge bell-bottoms. "You know what I would really like to do?" he asked huskily.

"Stop rubbing my bum?" asked Ray. He grinned at his newfound lover. "What you're doing feels great but there are people around."

With great reluctance Kevin withdrew his hand. He sighed heavily then brightened. "I would so love to skive off and head on up the beach with you. We could find a nice, quiet cove. Then I would take off every stitch you have on . . ."

Ray looked at Kevin, stunned. "Are you nuts?"

"No," Kevin breathed loudly. "Where was I, oh, yeah, then, after I had all your clothes off I would kneel down and take that wonderfully sweet dick of yours into my mouth and slowly take all of in until my nose was buried in those curly little pubes of yours. Then I would . . ."

Ray roughly pushed Kevin away "You are nuts! What the fuck are you . . . Where did . . . God Damn It . . ."

Kevin started laughing. "Had you going, didn't I?"

Ray sputtered, then began giggling. "You didn't make that up, asshole!"

"Nope," admitted Kevin. "I read it in a book my brother Connor kept hidden under his mattress. It was called 'Rogering on the Range'. I jerked off reading it for weeks until he caught me and told me he'd rip my dick off if I ever went into his things again." He leaned toward Ray and whispered. "You do have a nice dick, Ray."

Ray made a face. "Can you be serious for five minutes?" He began sweating heavily. "We have to talk."

"About?" asked Kevin warily. He had a strange feeling that Ray was about to give him the brush-off.

"Us. And please, please, just listen to me, okay?"

Kevin nodded slowly. "Here it comes," he thought.

"Last night, was, well last night was awesome. I never thought that I could feel such feelings, and you are, man you are wonderful when you make love." He saw Kevin struggling to speak, and held out his hand. "I have to say this Kevin." Without preamble or warning Kevin slammed his cap onto the ground. "Never mind the bullshit, Ray!" he snarled. He began grabbing the remnants of his lunch and stuffing them angrily into the cardboard box. Last night was just a one-night stand. We fucked and everything is even-Steven! 'Thanks for the use of your dick, Kevin' . . ."

"Kevin!"

"I knew it, I just fucking knew this was going to happen!" Kevin reached over and snatched the empty milk carton from Ray's hand. "I meet a guy who I think likes me, who I can really get off with, and of course, it's 'thanks for the blow job, Kevin', 'thanks for the use of your mouth, Kevin' . . ."

"Kevin, will you . . ."

"I really thought I meant something to you. But, oh no! Kevin's luck . . ."

Ray realized that Kevin was not about to shut up voluntarily so he deliberately picked up Kevin's cap and smacked him roundly on the top of his head.

Kevin stopped in mid-tirade and rubbed the top of his head. "What the fuck did you do that for?"

"It got your attention and it shut you up!" returned Ray hotly. "Now shut the fuck up and let me say what I want to say. I am not giving you the brush-off!"

Kevin stopped rubbing his head. "You're not?"

"No. Now close your mouth. You're getting the flies excited."

"Fuck you, Cornwallis!"

"You already have, Berkeley! And if you want to again you'll shut up and listen to me!" He reached over and gave Kevin a good shake.

Kevin pulled away and smoothed down his gunshirt. "Okay, I'm listening." He shot Ray a sly glance. "Did you really mean that, what you said, about us doing it again?"

"Yes. When I told you last night was wonderful, I meant it. It was so wonderful, you were so wonderful, that I felt like a shit this morning for the way I treated you!"

Kevin shook his head, confused. "Ray, just what the fuck are you going on about?"

Ray inhaled deeply. "I don't love you. I like you, I like what we did, and I want to be with you again, but I won't lie to you and sail under false colours. I don't love you, and I don't want you to fall in love with me."

"Too late, I already have." Kevin jerked his head. "After we put the Brats to bed I lay in my bunk, thinking about what we did. I got so hot thinking about you I got a hardon and jerked off!"

Ray raised his eyes. "You did?"

"Yes. Twice!"

"Holy shit!" He looked at Kevin, his eyes gleaming. "Your dick must be some sore!"

Kevin chuckled. "It is, and my balls feel like they've been in a vise."

"Kevin, it really bothered me that, well, you made love to me. All I did was fuck you!"

"Is that all?" asked Kevin, his face full of surprise. "Is that what this is all about?"

"Yeah, it is. I didn't think about you!" Ray declared with some heat. "All I was interested in was getting my nut off!"

Kevin frowned slightly. "Look, Ray, it was your first time and it was my first time, so what's the problem?" He shrugged expressively. "The main idea was to get your rocks off. I didn't expect the world to explode, because I didn't know what to expect! All I know is that I liked what you did and if fucking me made you happy, I'm happy." Then he snickered. "Mind you, by the third time 'round the harbour you were doing pretty well. You even found my love button."

"Your what?"

"My love button? My prostate, you know, that gland that's inside of you just behind your balls?"

Ray raised his cap again. "I know what your prostate is!" He lowered his hand. "Love button! Jesus Murphy!"

Kevin grinned. "I read it in a skin magazine. That's what it was called in the magazine," he explained. Kevin grinned wider. "I know that I found yours." Ray returned the grin shyly. "Yeah, you did." He squirmed slightly. "But, Kevin, really, we have to talk seriously about us."

"Okay, talk. I promise to behave."

"Good. Now listen. First, I like you. You are hands down the best-looking guy around, and that includes Tyler, the Twins, and Harry."

"High praise!"

"Kevin, will you shut up and listen?" growled Ray. "The Twins are beautiful in that special way that guys are beautiful. Harry is gorgeous. Tyler's red hair is a real turn on and he has a great body and really nice set of tackle. They all have beautiful parts. To my mind, you are a lot better."

"Obviously, after last night. Then again, if you actually slept with any of them, you might think differently," returned Kevin sourly.

Ray ignored the interruption. "I haven't slept with any of them. Tyler is not gay. Harry is in love with someone else. The Twins, well, I wouldn't say no, but they haven't asked."

"So what's the problem?" asked Kevin, still confused at Kevin's attitude. "I turn you on, and you definitely turn me on."

"Kevin, I am in love with another guy. I am so in love with him that if he said the word I'd come running. I am not playing you along about anything. I want to be with you, I want you to make love to me. But you have to understand the way I feel. Next week, when you leave, whatever we have is all we'll have." Kevin was very quiet. When he spoke he was very calm, very controlled. "When we were together, were you fucking me and thinking about him?"

"No, Kevin, you and I were the only two people in Chef's office last night," replied Ray truthfully. "I had sex with Kevin Berkeley, not him."

"Do I know him?"

"Yes. And please don't ask me who he is. All I will tell you is that we have fooled around, but we have never made love. I want to, but he won't."

"He's straight?"

Ray shook his head. "He's gay. He loves me, but not the way I love him, or the way you love me. He's also all but living with another guy. They are very much in love and I am not a part of the equation. That does not change the fact that I love him. I always will."

Kevin scratched his chin, cracked his knuckles and looked directly at Ray. "I can live with that. Last night, with you, was great. If knowing that I'm just the second string means you'll keep loving me, and making love to me, fine. I won't complain."

"Even though it won't be long term?" protested Ray. "You leave in a week. I live in Ottawa and you live in Hamilton. That's not what I would call commuting distance."

"There are always cadet exchanges, and the regattas. There's always next year back here."

Ray shook his head. "There's no guarantee of that, and you know it. I could end up in Kingston, or ACADIA, anywhere. I'm a cook, remember?" He chuckled. "If Chef has anything to say about it, yes, I'll be back here. But he can be drafted tomorrow, to Halifax or a ship, so there's no guarantee that he'll even be here. I'm also not sure that I'll be available next summer. I'm thinking of joining the NRSSTP."

"The what?"

"The Naval Reserve Summer Student Training Program. It's run by the Reserves at CARLETON. The students get paid basic private's pay and it's run just in July and August. It's close to home and if I join it will at least shut my parents up."

"Your parents? What have they got to do with it?"

Ray started to laugh. "Oh, man, you have no idea what it's like where I live. My parents are really religious. We belong to this church that is so strict that if they ever found out about me, and what I've been doing, the whole family would be excommunicated!"

"You're kidding!"

"Nope. Believe it or not, until I joined the Sea Cadets, I had never seen another boy naked, not even my brother, and we share a room!"

"Get out of here! I've seen my all my brothers naked lots of times. I even used to watch them fool around when they thought I was sleeping."

"Yeah? Well I never fooled around with my brother. Even if I wanted to I wouldn't be able to get through all the clothes!"

"What clothes?"

"When we go to bed, we have to wear pyjamas, and a T-shirt, and our underwear," Ray explained with a giggle. "When I change to go to bed? I have to do it in the bathroom, with the door locked. So does my brother. I go to a Christian school. No pool, because we'd have to change into swimming suits, which means we'd see one another naked, which is a sin. We can't shower after gym class because that means we'd have to get naked. Another sin. We are not allowed to do anything that is remotely sexual. No swearing, no smoking, no drinking."

"Is there anything that isn't a sin?" Kevin shook his head, wondering how such things were possible.

Ray thought a moment. "Lemonade."

Kevin fell over laughing. "Lemonade?"

"Yeah. We can't drink coffee, or Coke, or tea, but we can drink lemonade."

"I guess beating off is out of the question."

"Big sin," replied Ray, rolling his eyes. "Right up there with fornication."

Kevin, whose family was quite lackadaisical in religious matters, was overcome with laughter. "Jesus, Ray, how do you stand it?"

Ray rocked his head back and forth and smiled thinly. "No choice, Kevin. I have to go with the flow at home. In a way, I guess, last night, I was making up for lost time. I really meant it when I said I was sorry. You deserved better."

"Don't be stupid!" snapped Kevin. How dare Ray say that he deserved better? "Okay, we got it on. Tonight we'll do it again and this time we can just take our time."

"Even though we're just, you know, fuck buddies?" asked Ray softly.

"Fuck buddies is better than no buddies!" replied Kevin. "If being with you for a week is the best that can happen, then fine." He stood up and indicated the other cadets. "I've known that I was gay from the time I was 10. I also know that there are some guys over there that would dearly love to take a walk in the woods with me. I don't want to walk with them! I want to walk with you. If you hadn't made the first move last night, I would have. I wanted you just as much as you wanted me."

"I sort of figured that part out all by myself," replied Ray with a grin. He stood up and squared off his cap. He snickered an evil little snicker. "I would really like to take that walk along the beach with you, Kevin, because . . ." He leaned over and whispered in Kevin's ear, ". . . I have got a raging hardon." Kevin chuckled. "It will help you think about tonight. And Ray?"

"Yeah?"

Kevin giggled and glanced at Ray's crotch. "I've had a bone on for an hour!"

For The Phantom the afternoon passed quickly and he actually managed to get quite a lot done. He had arrived back at the galley with ten minutes to spare. Chef, grumbling about ingrates and muttering about showers, had hurried off to his meeting. Lunch had been boring. A total of five people ate: Dirty Dave the Deacon, and four Base Maintenance personnel who had stopped by to work on the water system.

Shortly before 1300 Chef returned, in a mood. He muttered and clucked under his breath and then disappeared into his office. The Phantom, who knew better than to tempt fate, turned off the gas, stacked the dirty lunch dishes, and went to work on the Admiral's Dining Room and by 1500 he had moved all the silver, the Minton service, and part of the crystal. After his first trip home he stopped at the Mess Hall to see what was going on. Chef was in the main dining room, muttering about room dividers and pacing off the section of the room nearest the doors leading to the galley. Rather than interrupt him The Phantom crept out and loaded up the Land Rover again.

When The Phantom had safely tucked his second load of treasures into a far corner of the basement - and how he was ever going to explain all the dishes and silver to his parents he hadn't a clue - he stripped off and dove naked into the pool. He skinny dipped for a good half-hour and then went upstairs, showered, changed and returned to AURORA.

Chef had been busy, preparing cold salads and slicing meats for sandwiches. The duff tables were overflowing with cakes, cookies and pieces of pie. Aside from asking if Phantom had any wines tucked away, Chef left the boy to his own devices.

The Phantom set the tables for dinner, and then returned to the galley. Chef was sitting at his table muttering over one of his recipe books. He looked up and saw The Phantom. "Phantom, there's cold beer in the fridge. Get one for us, will you."

"Sure Chef."

The Phantom got the beer and two glasses that had been cooling in the fridge, brought them to the table and, at Chef's direction, sat down, wondering what Chef was up to this time.

The beer poured, they both took a long, deep drink. The beer was so cold that it burned on the way down. Chef grinned as he lowered his glass. "There is nothing quite like a cold beer on a hot summer day!"

The Phantom returned the grin. "Sure isn't." He glanced down at the closely written papers strewn over the table. "Are you going to tell me what you're up to?"

"What makes you think that I'm up to anything?" asked Chef, all innocence.

"Because you've been muttering and grumbling all afternoon. Because you've got a table covered with what looks like receipts and because you've not only got your old Escoffier out . . ." He pointed to a thick, battered and food stained book. "You've also got out the Repertoire, which means you are up to something!" Chef nodded, pleased that Phantom had picked up on the old tradition of calling recipes receipts.

"Tyler is going to host a Full Court, First Class dinner. No holds barred, nothing held back." He pushed back his chair and gazed levelly at The Phantom. "And you are going to help me make it a dinner that none of them will ever forget!"

"Me?"

"You. Or rather your Daddy's wine cellar."

The Phantoms left eyebrow shot up. "Uh, Chef, about that . . ."

"Your Daddy doesn't have a wine cellar?" His tone left no doubt that he thought that Chief Lascelles did indeed have a wine cellar.

"Well, he has cases full of hooch, and yeah, lots of wine." The Phantom looked around conspiratorially then leaned forward. "Chef, Sea Cadets cannot drink alcohol," he said seriously.

Chef's roar of laughter so startled The Phantom he fell out of his chair. This caused Chef to laugh even louder. Red faced, The Phantom picked himself up and regained his seat. "I fail to see the humour, Chef . . ." he began indignantly.

"You're the one who's ass lost its purchase!" Chef composed himself and wiped away the tears of mirth. "Those brats have been swilling booze for a month." He leaned forward and winked at The Phantom. "Which you've been bootlegging to them. Not to mention that you've been known to sup at the suds from time to time."

"You offered it to me!" protested The Phantom.

"No matter, and I shall not mention your incipient alcoholism to anyone," replied Chef righteously. He waved his hand, airily dismissing The Phantom's protest. "A proper dinner needs wines. I expect that you will do your duty." The Phantom raised his hands and shook his head in defeat. "Fine. But first you tell me what brought this burst of culinary energy on."

Chef grimaced as only he could grimace. He waved toward the fridge and pointed to the empty beer glasses. The Phantom took the hint and when he returned Chef played mother. "Phantom, lad, the first rule of Chefdom is that the chef in the kitchen is the Chef in the Kitchen! I forgot that."

"You did?" asked The Phantom in disbelief. The Chef he knew never forgot anything.

Chef nodded sadly. "The chef in Comox is not a man after my old diseased heart. He is, sadly, an innovator, and has taken up with something called 'nouvelle cuisine'."

"What the hell's that?"

Chef shrugged. "From what I saw, dibs and dabs of things I wouldn't feed the ship's cat! Dinky little portions that wouldn't fill a corner of a boy's stomach! And the menu he's planning for the Officers' Dinner . . ." Chef snorted in disgust. "Cream of Leek soup, followed by Coquilles St. Jacques!" Chef joined his hands in a prayerful gesture. "One never, ever, follows a heavy cream dish with a cream dish," he said seriously, a High Priest intoning the Word of The Lord from the steps of the Temple. "Then he's serving a salad and everybody knows that salad is always served after the main course."

The Phantom thought that the menu did not sound all that bad, but was smart enough not to say so.

"And for the main course, leg of lamb! Lamb at dinner in August!" Chef snorted in disgust. "We shall do better!" he bellowed, sounding positively Churchillian. He pushed a pad of paper toward The Phantom. "Start writing, and please, make it legible."

The Phantom nodded, not daring to remind Chef that lamb had been good enough for the cadets' dinner - and lunch - only a few days before. He searched for a writing stick under the nest of papers and books on Chef's table, found a pencil, and grinned. "Okay, Chef, let 'er rip!"

"First, to start, venue. We shall serve in the main dining room. We can use portable room dividers - which I happen to know, are quietly rotting away in Stores - and decorate them with flags and pendants. You and your stewards will take care of that, and set and decorate the tables. You'll want flowers, low arrangements in blue, white and gold please." The Phantom scribbled madly. What a baptism for the new stewards! Chef in his Queen Mother Mary mode! "Next, staff. How many stewards do you have?"

"Ten, including me. We'll need a wine steward because none of my guys . . ."

"Enough already! There will be wine at table. Stevie will serve!" replied Chef with finality. The Phantom rolled his eyes and shrugged, wondering if The Gunner was going to be asked or told. "I shall have Randy and Joey, plus four new Makee-Learns, or I'll know the reason why. Ray and Sandro will assist . . ." "You promoted them. They should be at a Chiefs and Petty Officers dinner as guests," reminded The Phantom.

"I know that," replied Chef, staring at The Phantom with all the hauteur of a Grande Dame addressing the village idiot. "They can help with the preparation."

"Whatever."

"Don't be cheeky, Phantom, it ill becomes you! Now then, the menu. The first course will be Consommé Royale, which will be accompanied with a fine old Amontillado sherry. Your father does have sherry?"

The Phantom thought a moment. "Yeah. I don't know if it's fine or old, though."

Chef waved The Phantom's doubt away. "Whatever. I have everything I need for the soup." He consulted his copy of Escoffier. "The Master advises the addition of an old hen . . ." The Phantom's eyebrow shot up again. Chef saw it and grinned. " . . . And if you dare to suggest Matron I shall hit you!"

The Phantom giggled. "Okay, Consommé. What's next?"

"Fish, smoked salmon with red onions and capers. We'll have a nice Mosel with that, I think." The Phantom was not at all sure what a Mosel was, but wrote it down anyway. "We'll follow with a sorbet. Champagne for that, Phantom, any domestic brand will do and for the main course, Beef Wellington with a good burgundy. Does your father have any Chateau Neuf du Pape? I'm rather partial to that."

"I'll look," replied The Phantom cautiously. Jesus, what does he think my Dad's running?

"Then a salad. We'll look at the receipts and see what's on offer in the market," continued Chef. "Then, pudding. How does Baked Alaska sound?"

The Phantom knew what that was. "Great. Are you going to flame it?"

"Certainly not. That would involve brandy." Chef stood up and stretched.

"Perhaps I may have to re-think the pudding course. Sure and brandy is not best given to infants, except in their bottles." He glanced at the galley clock.

"Look at the time! Following the pudding you'll need your Minton service. We'll have dessert, and cheese."

The Phantom did not want to risk setting Chef off on a ramble so ignored the old boot's remark about brandy and baby bottles. He finished writing, and then looked at Chef. "This is going to cost, Chef. How were you planning on paying for it?"

"The ration account, where else? I have to use it all up or the bean counters get decidedly pouty! Why would you ask?"

"Well, at breakfast I heard Kyle and Andy arguing over the dinner at Base. Andy isn't going because it's costing $25.00 each, and Andy is poor."

Before Chef could comment on Andy's poverty, from outside the Mess Hall the sounds of grinding gears and hissing air brakes announced the return of the troops. Joey and Randy, still dressed in their swimming trunks, came charging into the galley, chattering away. They greeted The Phantom and Chef with huge smiles and waves. "It was great, Phantom," enthused Joey. "We got to fire submachine guns and Randy fell flat on his bum and we almost shot Little Big Man."

Randy affected a pout. "But we missed him so we went swimming instead and it was great and we really behaved ourselves, Phantom, but to tell you the truth . . ." Randy was prattling on as Chef and The Phantom exchanged glances. Little Big Man almost shot?

Ray and Sandro sauntered in. Like the Brats they were still in their swimming gear. "Hey Phantom, hey Chef," grinned Ray as they passed the table. "We had a great day."

Sandro grimaced sourly. "Could have been better."

Ray shook his head. "Sandro I told you that you couldn't go around shooting people you don't like!"

"In Russia the KGB . . ." began Sandro

"You're not in Russia and you're not the KGB!" retorted Ray. "Now come on, we have to change. Randy, Joey, get moving. You better have some clean duds in your lockers."

All four of the boys, unconcerned about the near-fatal experience of Little Big Man, hurried from the galley and into the locker room. Chef looked at The Phantom. "Well, it would appear that the boys had a good time," he said.

"Do you think I should go into the locker room and find out why nobody shot Little Big Man?" asked The Phantom.

At that moment the door from the roadway opened and The Gunner entered. Wordlessly he walked to the service counter, found a glass and strode purposefully into Chef's office, to emerge with a bottle of dark rum in his hand. He poured a large measure of Pusser penicillin into the glass, drank it down, shuddered, and then sat on the edge of the table. "Dear God, what a near run thing we had today!" he muttered as the colour returned to his face.

Chef took the bottle of rum, measured the amount left in the bottle with his eye, shook his head, and placed on the deck beside his chair. "We understand that there was an assassination attempt on the ranges today," he said cautiously.

The Phantom made a face. "Killing a snake is not assassination."

"Phantom! How very unkind," replied Chef, pretending to be shocked. "Think of the anguish and consternation such a thing would cause."

"Too bad nobody shot the little fuck," retorted The Phantom. "Small loss, if you ask me."

"Actually I was referring to the amount of paperwork the poor old Gunner would have to fill out. But then again, it has been my experience that if you are going to shoot somebody make sure you kill 'em because it's a lot easier to lie about . . ."

"God Damn It!" The colour had been rising in The Gunner's face as he listened to the total indifference of Chef and The Phantom at the near demise of Little Big Man. "We could have had a serious accident out there! That goofy little fuck almost got himself riddled by 15 SMGs!"

Chef nodded solemnly at The Phantom. "Serious business, that. Pay attention, now, Phantom while Stevie tells us all about it."

The Phantom giggled, which did not please The Gunner at all. He glared witheringly at Chef and The Phantom and growled, "Go ahead, laugh," his tone suggesting that he would have dearly have loved to append "assholes" to his reply.

"Come on Stevie, tell us what happened," said Chef soothingly. "Have another wet."

"I don't want another wet!" snapped The Gunner.

"Then don't," replied Chef, totally unfazed. "But please do tell us what happened."

As The Gunner told it, the afternoon had been somewhat boring. It had been very hot and the cadets were more than anxious to get finished and hit the pool. The only high point during the afternoon's shooting had been when the RSO demonstrated the FNC1, the standard issue rifle for the CAF. He had called for a volunteer to help him demonstrate, and Randy, all five feet, 80 pounds of him, held up his hand.

The RSO was originally sceptical. Randy assured him that he had fired a rifle before, which he had. What he neglected to tell the RSO was that the highest calibre he had ever fired had been the .22 he used at home, and the bolt operated .303's that had been rebored to .22, which the cadets had been firing all morning.

With the RSO instructing, Randy was to fire at a stationary target from the standing position. Randy shouldered his weapon, allowed for windage (there was no wind), and slowly squeezed the trigger of the rifle. Up to that point everything had gone according to plan. What Randy forgot was the FNC1, a combat rifle, had a greater recoil than a .22. He was so startled as the butt of the weapon slammed into his shoulder that he lost his balance and flew backward ass over tip, landing in a heap at the RSO's feet. Fortunately Randy had been unhurt, though he would have a bruised shoulder. Everybody thought this a huge laugh, even more so when the RSO paid more attention to the condition of the rifle than he did to the condition of Randy.

From the rifle range everybody trooped down to the Butts where, in the open space between the berms, there would be a demonstration of the SMGs. Once the RSO had demonstrated the firing protocol for the SMG he had ordered the senior cadets to take up a weapon and assume their position on the firing line.

Little Big Man, up to that moment very much under Tyler's thumb, had been detailed to pass the curved metal magazines. He had snatched the magazines from Brian, and walked down the line, giving each cadet a magazine. At the far end of the line was Tyler, who was paying much more attention to not making a fool of himself than he was to what Little Big Man was doing.

The Range Safety Officer stood behind the firing line. He had been running ranges for years and had never had an accident. He was a very careful man. The cadets, being very careful teenagers, followed the RSO's instructions to the letter. There was no skylarking, no nonsense of any kind. When everybody was ready, with magazines loaded into the weapons, the RSO began his firing routine. "Ready on the left! Ready on the right! In your own time, commence . . ."

At that moment Little Big Man, who had noticed that the SMGs ejected left, and having no desire to be assaulted with hot metal cartridges that would be ejected from Tyler's weapon, decided to return to the loading table where he had seen Brian and Matt laughing over something. Without thinking he had started running IN FRONT OF THE FIRING LINE! All anybody saw was a blue and white blur as is passed down the firing line.

The Range Safety Officer had to be physically restrained.

The Gunner, who had visions of seeing Little Big Man's body, riddled with 150 copper-jacketed 9 mm cartridges, almost lost his lunch. When his heart finally stopped pounding, and his balls returned to their normal position (they had been juggling for room in his throat with his heart), he managed to calm the cadets down, apologize to the RSO and banish Little Big Man to the ambulances for the balance of the shoot.

" . . . So there you have it," finished The Gunner, miffed at the total lack of sympathy on the part of The Phantom or Chef.

"Fuck, if he'd only waited one second!" snarled The Phantom.

"One of life's lost opportunities, Phantom," consoled Chef. "Trust the Army to fuck up a perfectly good accident! Get another couple of beers, Phantom."

During the drive from AURORA to The Gunner's small apartment The Phantom listened intently as The Gunner told him about his conversation with Tyler.

"This Order, it has power?" asked The Phantom when The Gunner finished speaking.

"I wouldn't call it power so much as friends in very high places," replied The

Gunner. "Friends who have influence with other friends."

"And they help gays in trouble?"

"Yes, as much as they can. Some we won't help." They pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex and as they exited the car The Phantom asked whom and why the Order would not help. "Pedophiles," replied The Gunner as he opened the door to his apartment. He noticed that The Phantom had a dark plastic suit bag slung over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"I remembered what you told me, so I brought my uniform," explained The Phantom as he laid the bag on the living room chair. He turned and looked at The Gunner.

"Does that mean you will not help Harry?" he asked, flopping down on the sofa.

"Harry is not a pedophile. He's in love with a 13-year-old boy, one boy," replied The Gunner. He sat on the sofa opposite The Phantom. "Until Stefan came along I doubt Harry ever thought of boys in a sexual way. I've seen him with the Sea Puppies, and he's never shown any sign of being interested in any of them." "He isn't," said The Phantom. He scratched his leg where he'd been bitten by something. "Stefan was the only one. And he made the first moves on Harry."

"I know that."

"Harry also was involved with another guy in Victoria."

"Serious?"

The Phantom shrugged. "It could have been, I suppose, but Harry was only looking for a fuck buddy. The other guy wanted more. They broke up."

The Gunner raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "This other guy, is he vulnerable?"

The Phantom nodded slowly. "Little Big Man knows he was somehow involved with a younger cadet. They didn't do anything serious, but still . . ." He shrugged. All it took was a word, after all.

"I'll talk to Greg when I get back." The Gunner smiled when he saw the startled look on The Phantom's face. "And don't look so surprised. You're not the only one with big ears around here. I know all about Stephen Tyler, and I also know that Greg shared a room and a bed with Harry in Victoria."

The Phantom chuckled and left the chair. He sat down beside The Gunner, gave him a kiss on the cheek and began unbuttoning the buttons on the man's sweat-stained shirt. "You're as big a snoop as I am," he giggled.

The Gunner chuckled and pulled the boy closer to him. "That'll be the day."

When The Gunner's shirt was unbuttoned The Phantom slowly drew his hand down the man's chest, caressing his nipples and rimming his navel with his fingers. "Let's talk about something, else," he whispered huskily.

"You do remember I have to catch a flight later on?" The Gunner grinned, knowing just what The Phantom wanted to 'talk' about.

The Phantom nodded and began unbuckling The Gunner's belt. "Your flight leaves at nine. You have to check in at eight. It's just past six."

"And you plan on spending the next two hours in seducing me?" The Gunner grinned as The Phantom's hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers and found his soft genitals.

"Oh, maybe an hour of seduction and then an hour of something better," replied The Phantom, grinning.

They kissed deeply, and then pulled away. "Phantom, I have to shower," complained The Gunner. "I'm gritty and dirty and I smell bad."

The Phantom laughed, stood up, and began pulling off his clothes. When he was naked he held out his hand. "Shower?"

They stood under the lone showerhead, naked, soaping and stroking each other, washing away the grit and grime of the ranges and the galley. "Here, let me do your back," said The Phantom as he moved behind The Gunner, who arched his neck in pleasure as he felt the soft hands massage his shoulders and back. He moaned slightly as The Phantom's lips touched the nape of his neck.

The Gunner turned and faced The Phantom, his finger tracing a watery path down the boy's body. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against The Phantom's. They ground their raging hardons together, their kiss deepening. The Gunner shivered in expectation as The Phantom's tongue slipped between his slightly opened lips. The Phantom let out a soft moan of pleasure as The Gunner's hand stroked him softly.

They pressed their bodies close together and The Phantom felt the slow, pistoning movements as The Gunner held both their erections in his hand. The Gunner's thumb crossed The Phantom's rosy glans and the boy trembled with pleasure. "Oh, God, Gunner," he groaned as a wave of ecstasy roared through him. The Gunner released The Phantom's iron hard penis and moved his hand up his chest, caressing the soft treasure trail that reached upward from the teen's navel. Murmuring softly, revelling in the gentle exploration of his body, The Phantom rested his head against The Gunner's chest.

"I love you, my Phantom," whispered The Gunner. "I have never loved anyone like this before." He kissed The Phantom's neck, his lips and tongue following the lines of the youth's crisp collarbone, then moving slowly downward, savouring the sweetness of the soft skin, his tongue flicking across The Phantom's left nipple. The Gunner's lips found the small brown ferrule that was The Phantom's nipple and sucked gently, causing the small button of flesh to grow hard. The Phantom groaned with the pleasure of it.

Continuing to stroke The Phantom's throbbing erection, The Gunner moved downward, slipping to his knees as he followed the soft treasure trail. He buried his nose in The Phantom's pubic bush, drinking in the wonderful odour of soap and musk and boy. He wrapped his arms around The Phantom's thighs and held the youth he loved above all others close, burying his face in the warmth and hardness of The Phantom's groin. New odours assaulted him, sweet flesh and indescribable smells, so powerful that he almost lost control. His moist lips kissed The Phantom's testicles, nipping gently at the scant hair lining the boy's love trail. Then he opened his mouth and softly closed it around The Phantom's blood- engorged, throbbing penis. With one hand The Gunner grasped the thick base of The Phantom's erection as he took all of firm, silky hardness into his mouth. He moved his mouth slowly up the throbbing shaft and sucked steadily. The warmth and wetness that engulfed him caused The Phantom's hardness to jerk and he shuddered as the ecstasy building deep within his balls engulfed him. "Gunner, it's gonna happen," The Phantom moaned as the feelings of pleasure overwhelmed his body. The Gunner sucked all the more rapidly, anxious to taste again the wonderful nectar that flowed from this wonderful boy's perfect cock. "Oh, yeah, oh, yeah," muttered The Phantom as he felt himself peaking. "Oh, yeah!" He began thrusting gently and before he could warn his lover his dick thickened and spasmed.

The Gunner groaned with happiness as jet after jet of warm ambrosia smashed into his mouth, coating his tongue and throat. He swallowed rapidly, not wanting to lose a single drop of the liquid sweetness that gushed in thick spurts from the curving, mushroomed shaped head of The Phantom's pulsating erection.

The Phantom continued to pump his hips in sharp, tiny thrusts, groaning loudly as his balls emptied. He gave one final, slow, upward thrust then yelped as he pulled away from the all-encompassing warmth of The Gunner's mouth. Like many teens the head of The Phantoms' dick was so sensitive after his intense and massive ejaculation that even the softness of The Gunner's tongue against his still hard organ was too much to bear. He leaned against the wall of the shower, feeling the water cleanse his body, looking down to see The Gunner, kneeling, staring back at him, his eyes soft and filled with love. The Phantom reached down and pulled The Gunner to his feet, holding him close, his arms embracing the hard, firm body of the man he would always love above life.

As the water roared from the showerhead and assaulted their bodies, The Phantom rubbed his cheek against The Gunner's drenched, almost hairless chest, and he felt the fast-paced pounding of his lover's heart. He reached down and began to slowly stroke The Gunner's iron-hard erection, paying close attention to the top half and perfect helmet of the crimson hued organ. As his thumb slowly caressed the red, excited head of The Gunner's penis, The Phantom felt the man's warm breath and heard the low groaning that rose from his throat. Suddenly The Gunner stopped breathing and thrust upward and his sperm arced and hammered against The Phantom's belly.

The Gunner, lost in the ecstasy of the moment, continued to groan and thrust as successive streams of his semen spurted and oozed from his slit. He continued to thrust slowly even as his orgasm ebbed away, shivering and groaning as his helmet passed over and over again across the palm of The Phantom's grasping hand.

They held each other, their erections rock hard refusing to deflate, despite their eruptions. The Phantom raised his head and his lips pressed against his lover's. It was time, time for them to give each other the greatest gift that one man can give to another. It was time for each of them to give the other a small measure of themselves.

"I love you, Gunner," murmured The Phantom when they parted. "I will always love you, in life, in death, always and forever." The Gunner nodded and gazed into the boy's wonderfully deep, emerald eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but The Phantom's fingers found his beautiful lips. "I want us to make love, Stevie," he growled longingly. "I want to . . ."

The Gunner pulled a little away from his trembling lover. He reached around and turned off the water. "Not here, my Phantom, not here."

They left the steam shrouded cubicle, towelled themselves dry and, hand in hand, they went into the bedroom where The Phantom positioned himself on the bed, making himself comfortable, his legs slightly apart, his hard penis jutting outward from his body. He reached out for The Gunner, who joined him on the bed. They lay together, their bodies close, touching and caressing, kissing and nuzzling each other for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, they pulled away. Wordlessly The Gunner found the lubricant in the bedside table drawer, then took one of the pillows and placed it under The Phantom's backside. He returned to the bed, moving down it and positioning himself between The Phantom's legs. He pushed them gently apart and leaned forward, propping himself on his hands, staring intently into the youth's expectant face. "I want to see your face," he murmured. "I want you to see mine."

The Phantom nodded slowly, reached out, and pulled The Gunner to him. Their heated bodies shivered in anticipation of what was to come. "Love me, Stevie," The Phantom whispered. "Love me."

The Gunner raised his head and nodded slowly. He gazed at The Phantom's wonderful face, the boys' green eyes bright with excitement, his sun-tanned face flushed with expectancy. He lowered his head and tongued The Phantom's ear, and then slowly traced a path down the teen's warm, sweet body. He nibbled at each of The Phantom's nipples, bringing them to standing hardness.

The Phantom moaned deliriously as The Gunner's mouth followed the soft, velvet treasure trail that bisected his abdomen, paused briefly to lick and kiss the tight, folded skin of his navel, then moved on, downward toward the rosy pink, wondrously formed erection that rose out of the dark forest of his pubic hair.

The Gunner wanted this glorious boy to feel every pleasure it was in his power to give, to experience again the agony and the ecstasy of the love that only a man can give to a man. He kissed The Phantom's blood-engorged glans, his tongue cleaning the spongy, soft/hard flesh of the precum that oozed river-like from the distended slit that accented the classic beauty that was The Phantom's penis. Kissing and licking the soft skin of The Phantom's stomach, The Gunner dragged his nose again and again through the thick, wild, pubic bush that ringed the boy's throbbing organ, snuffling, enjoying again the strong aromas that seeped into his nostrils.

The Phantom growled with each touch of the warm, moist lips and silken tongue, each soft caress an act of adoration, surrendering himself to the novel sensations that raged through his body.

The Gunner began his slow progress to The Phantom's tight, puckered entrance, kissing the hair-dusted skin of his inner thighs, nipping gently at his lover's balls, licking them, blowing softly on the tightening flesh of their hairless sac.

The Phantom moaned and thrashed his head as The Gunner's tongue found his rosy-brown hole. He whimpered as The Gunner dragged his velvet tongue across the wrinkled flesh, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure arcing through The Phantom's body. Thrashing as the waves of indescribable delight crashed upwards from his rectum, almost overcome as The Gunner's gently curved tongue probed and entered him, The Phantom kept his eyes tightly closed as wave after wave of incredible sensations coursed through his body. He was so overcome that he unconsciously raised his hips at each thrust of The Gunner's tongue into his spasming hole. He was so in the thrall of the pleasures that crashed through him that he barely felt The Gunner's tongue withdraw.

The Gunner opened the tube of lubricant and squeezed a generous portion onto the tip of his finger and applied it to The Phantom's slightly open pinkness that ached for more stimulation. The coolness and slickness of the jelly sent a wave of new sensations rushing through The Phantom's body, the sensations succeeded by even more intense feelings as The Gunner's finger rubbed in slow circles around and around his opening hole.

As his finger continued to circle and massage The Phantom's pulsing rosebud, The Gunner lowered his head over the lad's erection, the back of his tongue sliding down the underside of The Phantom's dick, his head rising and falling, his lips never touching the sensitive organ. As his tongue savaged the knot of scar tissue just under the curving rim of The Phantom's leaking glans, The Gunner inserted his finger into his lover's body, pushing slowly inward until it nudged the smooth, round mound that was the boy's prostate.

The Phantom gasped. His body jerked and he yelped loudly as an electric shock of exquisite wonder slashed through him. His body arched and his eyes rolled back as The Gunner's mouth tightened around his boner and his tongue circled the perfect, crisp outline of his mushroom.

The Gunner sucked slowly, not taking his mouth from The Phantom's smooth skinned hardon. He withdrew his finger then inserted two jelly-slicked fingers into The Phantom, corkscrewing slowly, expanding the pulsating channel, rubbing and rubbing across the teen's prostate.

Moaning incoherently, The Phantom bucked and squirmed with pleasure, his mind a total blank as a huge ripple of unimaginable pleasure eddied from his groin. Gasping, barely able to breathe, he groaned loudly. "Please, Stevie, now," he muttered. His head arced back and he thrust his hips high. "Fuck me, please, Stevie, fuck me!"

The Phantom pulled his legs back until his knees were touching his chest. The Gunner removed his fingers from The Phantom's now slightly opened hole and pushed his iron hard cock down, moving forward until the throbbing head of his dick was touching the waiting, pulsing orifice. He pushed forward slowly until just his blood-engorged, purple crown was in The Phantom, who muttered and growled as his fingers clawed at the sheet. The Phantom, breathing harshly, his mouth gaping open, pushed back until almost half of The Gunner's dick slid into him.

A small, short, sharp stab of pain convulsed The Phantom. He sucked in his breath sharply, and his face contorted. The Gunner, afraid that he was hurting The Phantom, began to pull out.

"NO!" The Phantom wrapped his legs around The Gunner's waist. His arms encircled the man and pulled him closer. "Don't stop. Keep pushing," he growled. "I want you in me!" He thrust his hips and all of The Gunner's hard cock slid into him. He moaned loudly as the thick, hot tube of flesh filled him, slipping through his sphincter, the head crossing the sensitive mound of his prostate.

With his head buried in The Phantom's shoulder, and breathing heavily, his hot breath searing the smooth flesh beneath his nostrils, The Gunner waited patiently until the boy's body relaxed, accepting his penis and preparing for the coming offering.

The Gunner began a slow, rhythmic thrusting, withdrawing his dick until just the head remained inside The Phantom. As he withdrew the boy cried out and clutched The Gunner closer. "No, please," he begged.

"It's okay," murmured The Gunner in reply. "It's okay." He pushed gently forward and felt his shaft slide effortlessly into The Phantom's tight, hot, rippling channel.

The feelings that washed through them were so intoxicating that they lost all sense of awareness. There was no AURORA, no galley, no office, just two bodies fused together as one. The Gunner growled as he increased his thrusting, feeling his orgasm building deep within him.

The Phantom thrust his hips back, and then pushed up, feeling the pressure in his balls building as the feather soft hair of The Gunner's treasure trail crossed and recrossed his throbbing, pulsing penis. The Phantom felt his balls withdrawing into his body, tightening in preparation for pumping his semen outward. His orgasm was building and building, the hot juices bubbling, threatening to burst forward at any time. The Phantom wanted them to cum together, wanted to feel The Gunner's life essence flood him. He groaned, overwhelmed, and tightened his ass muscles.

The Phantom's orgasm exploded and he let out a long, low moan as the most incredible sensation he had ever felt sent his soul soaring and his cock pumped and jerked, jet after jet of his hot sperm rocketed across his chest, splattering thickly across The Gunner's heaving stomach.

The Gunner could not hold out any longer. The combination of The Phantom's semen pulsing across his belly and chest, and the exquisite tightness that engulfed his dick in an iron grip, sent him flying over the precipice. His head snapped back, and small, guttural noises rose from his throat. His dick jumped and he thrust as deeply as he could, his massive load boring into The Phantom's body. Consumed by his incredibly intense orgasm, with wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him, he thrust short, quick strokes, his cock spasming and pulsing as he squirted thick jet after thick jet of his semen deep into The Phantom's being.

They moaned and groaned, their bodies grinding and thrusting until finally each had no more to give. Panting, the feelings of wonder ebbing from him, The Gunner felt The Phantom clutching him close. He lifted his head and their lips met, a long, deeply passionate kiss sealing their love.

They did not move for a long time and then, as his soft dick slid effortlessly from The Phantom's body, The Gunner broke their embrace. He rolled to one side, holding The Phantom close, saying nothing. It was enough that they were together.

Silently they lay together, not moving, arms entwined, each filled with the spirit of the other.