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). My e-mail address is paradegi@rogers.com

My thanks and gratitude, as always, to Peter, whose superb editing skills make my humble scribbling better.

The Boys Of AURORA - CHAPTER ONE

Great care had been taken to ensure that there was at least one Senior Cadet on each bus, thus insuring that good order and discipline was maintained. There had been no need to worry. After a parade, two long and involved Ceremonies, the water fight at the motel, and gorging themselves after the Sunset Ceremony at the barbecue supper set up on the grounds of the Legislature; almost all of the cadets began to drift off to sleep.

On the first bus Tyler, as Master at Arms, was in charge of 40 assorted tradesmen: Storekeepers, Engineers and General Training cadets. In the middle of the bus Rob and Ryan sat together, saying nothing. Ryan's head rested on Rob's broad shoulder. He was very happy and from time to time he ran his hand down Rob's muscular leg.

In the second bus Val had charge of the bulk of the Gunners. At the very back sat Brian and Dylan. They had taken off their jumpers and were using them as blankets. Dylan could not sleep if his body was not covered with something. Even on the hottest nights, when the humidity turned the barracks into a steam bath, he slept with a coverlet over him. Having something covering him and Brian also allowed Dylan to rest his hand in Brian's crotch.

In front of the two cadets Andy and Kyle sat together, each lost in thought. As they listened to the steady, even breathing of the sleeping cadets their hands joined. Andy had promised Kyle that they would talk about their relationship. He loved Kyle and did not have a clue what they were going to do.

Harry was in charge of Bus Number 3. As the bus pulled away from the Legislature he warned the assembled Bandsmen that he was tired and wished to nap. They all knew that a tired Harry was a grumpy Harry. A grumpy Harry was to be avoided at all costs. They all pulled their caps over their eyes and went to sleep, or pretended to.

Greg sat beside Harry, wondering how Harry could be such a good friend one minute and a prick the next. For two nights they had pleasured each other as much as two guys could without actually fucking. More and more Greg was realizing that he was falling in love with Harry, just as more and more he was reconciling himself to being nothing more than Harry's fuck buddy. For mile after dark mile he stared through the window of the bus, wondering what in hell he had gotten himself into.

Sylvain was in charge of Bus 4, which contained the Bugle Band and the Boatswains, including Stuart and Steve. Sylvain was in no mood for any nonsense. The encounter with the girls at the motel had left him in a state of extreme frustration and he was hornier than he had ever been in his life. He wanted nothing more than to sit in the shadows and massage the raging hardon that pressed against the fabric of his bell-bottoms.

Because he was a Chief, and in charge of the bus, Sylvain's orders to sit down and pipe down were obeyed, though not without an accompanying muted chorus of "Fuck you's, Bite me's and Up your ass's," from the Boatswains, who had no use for Musicians in general and Sylvain in particular. They considered him about as useful as a spare prick at a wedding and the fact that he was a Frog did not enhance Sylvain's standing with them one whit.

Stuart, who shared the troops' disdain of the French-Canadian Drum Major, stood up and, with a glance at his Boatswains, silenced the grumbling. Stuart might have had little use for Sylvain but, at the end of the day, the guy was a Chief and had to be supported. Sylvain retired in a snit to the back of the bus where, much to the amusement of Stuart and Steve, he moaned, groaned, huffed and puffed himself to what sounded like a most satisfying orgasm, after which he fell asleep, snoring loudly.

In Bus Number 5 the Twins were nominally in charge of the Sea Puppies and the few Gunners who had not managed to find a seat in the second bus. Aside from nattering on and complaining about all the fun they had missed in the pool, the Sea Puppies were well-behaved and settled down when Todd mildly suggested that they get some sleep, as the bugle would still blow at 0600 in the morning and after a full day of parades and fun in the sun The Twins felt the fatigue creeping through their bodies. They draped their jumpers over themselves and assumed their normal sleeping positions. Before very long Cory's head was resting on Todd's shoulder, and he was snoring quietly, with his hand inside the unzipped front of Todd's trousers, holding his brother's flaccid penis.

Todd slept with his nose buried in Cory's hair, his soft breathing ruffling the fine blonde hair on his brother's head. His hand was inside of Cory's unzipped trousers and softly squeezing his brother's sleeping genitals.

Bus Number 6 held the small work party that had been detailed to load it with the luggage, Harry's band instruments and Nicholas's flags. Nicholas, as Yeomen of Signals had a proprietary interest in his flags. They were on his Slop Chit and if one of them went missing he would be held responsible. He was therefore never far from his flags. As Senior Cadet he had supervised the loading of the bus and had seen to it that everything was stowed neatly, working on the premise that what was loaded had to be unloaded and the less of a muck up they made in the loading the easier would be the unloading.

Up forward, separated from the driver by a barrier of kit bags and a floor to ceiling barrier, Chris and Jon sat quietly. This afternoon, while the other cadets had been playing silly buggers in the pool they had made slow, passionate love, an act so profound that they were both still in the thrall of the euphoria they felt.

In the rear of the bus, surrounded by more kit bags and flag cases, Nicholas sat with Andre, who had rolled his jumper into a pillow and sat, scrunched up against the window, fast asleep. Nicholas had been quite surprised when Andre joined him on this bus. Usually Andre rode with the Band members. "Hey, petit." Nicholas smiled a warm greeting at his partner in combat. "What brings you here?"

Andre shrugged and grinned. "I am, I mean, can I sit here with you?"

"Sure. You want the window seat?" Nicholas unzipped his jumper and threw his white cap onto the overhead rack.

Andre nodded his thanks and slipped into the window seat. "I wish to sit with my friend. It is bonne? I mean it is okay?"

Nicholas laughed and sat down beside Andre. "Sure. Make yourself at home." Then he leaned over and whispered. "Can't say no to a guy who's shown me what his own mother hasn't seen since he was seven."

Andre blushed and giggled. "I have never done that, swim without my pants on. I would not dare!"

"You've never been skinny dipping?" asked Nicholas as he settled into the seat beside Andre. He found himself being very attracted to this sweet young man.

"Pardon?"

"Swimming without your suit. You've never gone bare balls?"

"Mais non! No, Nicholas. I would not dare. I have five sisters. They would laugh, and you know, make fun of my penis."

Nicholas laughed so hard he choked. "Sorry, petit, but it's pretty funny. I guess I'm lucky. I have brothers. Two of them."

It was Andre's turn to laugh. "I have seven brothers. Two, Antoine and Hercule, they are priests. They never smile and want to pray all the time. They are as bad as the priests in school."

"How come?"

"Nicholas, after you play sports, you go to the showers, yes?"

"Sure. If I came home smelling like a jock my mother would kill me."

"You take off all your clothes?"

"To shower? Of course. How else can you take a shower?" Nicholas saw that Andre was quite serious. "You wear your clothes in the shower?"

Andre nodded. "We must wear a pair of shorts. We are not allowed to look at the other boys. It is a sin."

Nicholas tried not to stare. "You mean you've never seen a guy naked before?"

"Oh, oui, sure. When I went away for the cadets. The Anglais do not think it is a sin?"

Nicholas ruffled Andre's curly black hair. "No sin in looking, petit. When you were born you didn't have pants on, did you?"

"Nicholas, that is silly. Of course I did not have pants on. What is silly is what the priests say is sinful. Nicholas, do . . . you . . .?" Andre made a slow, pumping motion with his hand.

"Why Andre, what a personal question to ask," replied Nicholas with a grin.

Andre drew back. "I am sorry, Nicholas. I was not right to ask such a question."

Nicholas smiled kindly. Poor Andre was so embarrassed that he was mixing up his verbs and tenses. "It's okay. And yes, I do. Don't you, petit?"

Andre blushed again. Then he nodded. "But not too often. It is a very big sin. Good for ten Our Fathers at least, plus two Decades of the Rosary, and if it is Pere LaRoche a long lecture on little boys not playing with themselves."

Nicholas chuckled. "You're not so little, petit." He pushed Andre playfully.

"Did it feel good when you did it?"

"Tabernac, yes! Once it felt so good I did it again!" Andre threw his hand over his mouth. "Mon Dieu, what am I saying?"

"Petit, every guy does it. If it feels good, it's no sin." Nicholas chuckled.

"Some guys do it three and four times a day. Look at Thumper."

Andre nodded and tried to stifle a huge yawn. "Mon Dieu, I am tired." He seemed to think for a moment. "Nicholas, you are a Roundhead. Thumper, he is also a Roundhead, yes?"

Nicholas nodded. "And you're a cavalier. You have a repli qui entoure le sommet du penis." "Really," thought Nicholas, "leave it to the Frogs to write a fucking book for something as normal and simple as a foreskin!" He gave Andre's ribs a poke with his elbow. "I don't have a 'puce. Guys who have it jerk off just as much as guys who don't."

"I just wondered," replied Andre. "Nicholas, sometimes it is difficult to understand. The priests say that doing things, like making you feel good, they are bad. But everybody does it. At night, tabernac, it is slap, slap, slap, you know . . ." He made a pumping motion with his hand.

Nicholas nodded. It was the same, with variations, in the Gunroom. "You haven't lived," he thought, "unless you've seen and heard Harry doing the Thumper Special!"

" . . . And if you don't do it you, in your sleep . . ." Andre no longer felt embarrassed talking to Nicholas about such things. He was only 15 and his knowledge of sex was limited to say the least. No one at home talked about sex and sometimes his parents acted as if sex did not exist at all. School was just as bad. The only thing that was ever said about sex was DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT! He was comfortable talking to Nicholas, so he would talk to him.

"You have a reve humide, a wet dream." Nicholas felt his attraction for Andre growing, an attraction he could not understand. He had never felt this way before, and while it disturbed him, it did not upset him. Actually, he rather liked the feelings he was having. "That's normal, too, petit. If you do it, and jerk off, you're in trouble because it's a sin of the flesh. If you don't jerk off and have a wet dream, which you can't not have, it's a sin of the flesh and also, I think of thought. Sometimes I am confused, too." He saw the slightly questioning look on Andre's face. "Our priests say the same thing your priests do. If you play with yourself, it's a sin. If you have a wet dream, it's a sin. If you even think about playing with yourself, it's a sin. If you look at a girl and think, boy, would I like to stick it in her and play hide the sausage, it's a sin."

Andre sighed. "I guess I go to Enfer, Nicholas, if what the priests are saying is right," he said with grim finality.

Nicholas laughed quietly. "Andre, I'll be standing right beside you."

At the rear of the long column of buses was Tail End Charlie: Chef's battered old Chevy. Chef was at the wheel, trying not to lose his temper as Dave Eddy, who shared the front seat with him, moaned and dripped about his treatment at the hands of the cadets. In the back seat, curled up in the corners, Joey and Randy snuffled and stirred, deep in sleep.

As they put-putted along behind the last bus Dave Eddy, quivering with indignation, angrily recounted in graphic detail what had happened to him. Not only had he been manhandled into the pool, his clothing had been stripped from him and, what was unforgivable, he had been groped. Never, in his entire life had his testicles been fondled and his penis squeezed. He was an officer and such things simply did not happen to officers!

Chef was not noted for his patience. Quite the opposite held true and Dave was very fortunate that Chef was relatively sober and did not have a cleaver handy. Gritting his teeth, Chef clutched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white as Dave droned on and on. Finally, Chef reached the end of his tether and exploded, "God Damn It!" he growled. "Lad, you have no one to blame but yourself! The Gunner as much as told you to mind your own business. Did you? No! You just had to get on your high horse and flash your stripe and a half in their faces." He glared angrily at the Sub-Lieutenant. "You got exactly what you deserved!"

Dave gaped and sputtered. "They stripped me!" he declared with heat. "They felt my dick and balls! I'm an officer, damn it!" He was crimson with righteous anger.

"BULL SHIT!" roared Chef so loudly that Randy and Joey started awake.

"Chef . . .?" began Joey, a little frightened.

"No problem, me son. You and Randy go back to sleep," replied Chef with a smile, his voice gentle.

Joey settled back. Randy, who was also now awake, gently kicked Joey's foot. He glanced first at his friend and then at Chef and Dave. He grinned widely. Sleep was definitely no longer on their agenda. It was not often that the officers and instructors bickered in front of the cadets so they listened intently as Chef continued on.

Joey's interruption had deflated Chef's anger somewhat and, after checking in the rear view mirror and making sure that the boys were all right, Chef glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Dave, his arms crossed across his chest, staring straight ahead, and frankly pouting.

Under ordinary circumstances Chef, who did not suffer fools - or officers - gladly, would have let Dave stew. Had Dave been an ordinary, garden variety, no hoper of an officer, Chef would have ignored the lad for the balance of the trip. What bothered Chef though, was that Dave was, while young and inexperienced, a good and popular officer who had the makings of becoming a great officer, with the right counsel and direction.

At the moment Dave was too puffed up with his own self-importance, and still in the thrall of being an officer. This Chef could understand for all too often during the course of his own career he had seen young lads, mere boys, really, Naval Cadets and Midshipmen, come strutting up the gangway, all full of piss and vinegar and starry-eyed, filled with the enthusiasm of youth and then, when the dust had settled and the stars had disappeared with the cold, hard light of day, seen those same lads turned into Wardroom Wallys, Champagne Charlies, or worse, Nigel Farnsworths, so full of themselves and their imagined prestige, that they were all but useless, fit only for the incitement to mutiny.

Thinking about it Chef realized that in a way he was partly to blame for officers turning out the way they did. He had never made any bones about disliking most officers, treating them with veiled contempt and disdain when he thought he could get away with it. No, he had not helped matters at all, and in retrospect he thought that perhaps those same objects of his contempt and disdain just might have become welcome additions to the ship's company, with the guidance and support of a senior rating, and an occasional good kick in the seat of their pants.

A quiet giggling from the back seat drew Chef's attention to the two boys. He had no idea how far Randy and Joey planned to go in the cadets, or if they even planned on going on, for that matter. What he did know, and what he knew to be important, was that all the boys deserved to be led by competent, unselfish officers. Chef decided that it was about time that he started to do something about the problem, rather than compounding it. There was no time like the present, and who better to start with than Dave?

Chef turned to Dave, who was still pouting, and spoke, his voice low and confident. "Dave, when you are told not to do something by an older, more experienced hand, do not do it! The troops are not impressed and waving your Commissioning Scroll at them only makes you out to be a bigger fool than they think you are!"

"I resent that, Chef!" snarled Dave, all but baring his teeth.

"Too fucking bad. Resent all you like," returned Chef. His anger was returning and he struggled to maintain his composure. "You were wrong to do what you did. The troops were not doing anything but having some good old-fashioned fun. They made no effort to deliberately expose themselves and when they got out of the pool they either had towels around them or they were wearing their swimming suits. I don't recall anyone complaining. The girls sure weren't."

"That is not the point! I am an officer and they had no right to strip off my clothes and feel me up!" insisted Dave stubbornly.

Joey and Randy squirmed uneasily. While they had not helped to strip Dave to his underwear they had taken advantage of the situation and given him a good feel (but then, so had Cory and, they suspected, Todd). Joey glanced at Randy, who grinned. They were so close that sometimes it scared Joey to think that Randy knew exactly what was going through his mind. By the same token he knew what Randy was thinking: Sub-Lieutenant Eddy had nothing between his legs to write home about. Still, it was best to shut up and pretend to be asleep.

"They did not strip you. They left you your underpants," Chef pointed out. He lowered his voice, changing tack, trying to reason with the irate officer. "Dave, you have been a Sea Cadet since you were 12. Before that you were a Navy League Cadet. You, of all people, should know how high spirited the boys can be. They meant no harm. They were just having fun. If anything you should feel complimented."

"I beg your pardon?" asked Dave, failing to see the compliment in being felt up. Chef sighed inwardly. Dave was too angry to listen to reason. With a slight shake of his head Chef said, his voice deceptively low. "Dave, by doing what they did they showed that they think of you as one of them. They only do things like that to guys they like."

"I would prefer that they think of me as an officer," said Dave coldly. "I am an officer, Chef, and I will thank you to remember that."

"Right, boyo!" Chef thought, resisting a natural inclination to reach over and smack the young man. "If that's the way you want it." He looked directly at Dave and shook his head. "Sir, I'm an old sailor who's been around for more than a Dog Watch. I shall give you one more piece of advice and then I shall keep my own counsel!""

"And that advice is?" asked Dave archly.

"When we get back to AURORA go into the Wardroom, pack your bags, and then get on the next plane home. When you get back home turn in your papers because you are not going to be of any use to man or cadet with that attitude."

As the convoy travelled north each bus in turn passed over a slight bump in the carriageway, which caused the heavy sleepers to stir uneasily, and the light sleepers to awaken. Andre, always a light sleeper, felt the jolt. Momentarily confused and disoriented, he shook the cobwebs from his head, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and remembered where he was. He saw that whatever had caused the bus to go bump in the night had not bothered Nicholas, who was sleeping soundly. The bus was very quiet, the only sounds being the purr of the motor and the swishing of the tires on the pavement. Andre stuck his head above the seat and looked around. In the dim light from the overhead fixture he saw nothing but piles of flags and baggage. Except for the driver and himself, everyone else seemed to be fast asleep. Andre turned and looked at his sleeping seatmate. Nicholas was one of a very few English boys that Andre could call a friend for it was a sad fact that his heritage discouraged, in every way, friendship with the English, to the extent that, though he lived in Montreal, one of the world's most cosmopolitan cities, Andre lived an insular, restricted, and constricted life in a virtually closed society within a society.

As a French-Canadian, Andre did not associate with English boys. His school, while one of the best in the Province, was unilingual French (Parisian, not, thank God, Canadian, which was a hodge podge of patois and idioms, so much so that anyone from the wilds of Quebec was an object of ridicule because no one could understand half of what he said). Only last year the Jesuit Fathers, with ill-concealed reluctance, had begun an English language course.

Andre's isolation from the English community in Montreal was such that the Sea Cadet Corps he belonged to was unilingual French and he was sent to a French only camp, HMCS QUEBEC, in Ste-Angele-de-Laval, for his New Entry Training. He had never had the opportunity to interact with English boys until he went to the Band School, in Kingston. Here Andre met one huge, jovial Drum Instructor named Harry, whose smiles and cajolery had made life bearable for him.

It was in Kingston that many of the myths Andre had come to believe as gospel were dispelled. It was common knowledge that the English hated the French. But Harry hated no one and went out of his way to be kind to his young French-Canadian drummers. No English boys spoke French. If this was so then why did Harry, and two blond-haired Twins from far off Vancouver, speak flawless French? Which led to the dispelling of another myth: all English were blond haired, with blues eyes and pink cheeks. Harry was dark, though pleasantly so. The Twins were blonds, with rosy pink skin. Typical Anglais boys. But Sylvain, who was from the real wilds of Quebec, up near Rimouski, was blond and had blue eyes, which had led to some very unkind remarks concerning his heritage. A myth disposed of.

Another myth held that all English were crude and very rude. Harry was crude, in the manner of all teenage boys in an all male environment, but he was never rude. As for the Twins, their manners were impeccable.

The English boys, it was held, would have nothing to do with French boys. This was also false. Harry and the Twins had taken a fancy to him, and teased and kidded Andre unmercifully. They also taught him the rudiments of drumming, and always included him in their escapades, and even took the time to teach Andre a few English words (mostly swear words, but English nevertheless).

It was also at Kingston that Andre saw with his own eyes that not all Anglais were Roundheads, as everybody thought. Some were, some were not, including an Anglais cadet from Sarnia who had a very long and rubbery repli and who delighted in demonstrating his ability to masturbate by just manipulating his foreskin, which everyone thought was interesting, until the Duty Officer and the Duty Petty Officer (Harry) walked in on one of his demonstrations.

In addition to dispelling the myths of his childhood, Kingston brought to the fore a small inkling that disturbed Andre: he was physically attracted to other boys, particularly the English boys. They were, for the most part, less repressed and more open about sex. Harry joked about the size, girth and beauty of his penis. The Twins, who were gangly, all bum and baskets, really, were also, it was whispered, homosexual, which nobody seemed to mind, except for some of the French boys who went to early Mass every day and thought that familiarity with The Twins meant eternal damnation. Andre would have loved to join the ranks of the damned but had not dared to make the first move.

Andre knew that Sylvain, and some of the older boys, all of whom were boarders at the Jesuit Academy, visited the younger boys at night. Or so it was rumoured. Andre would not have minded such a visit. Two things prevented it. He was not a boarder, and he did not trust Sylvain. He did not, in truth, trust any of his schoolmates. They were all sons of Holy Mother Church and sooner or later one of them would say the wrong thing in Confession. It had happened before, and two boys had been prayed over, condemned and expelled, all in flawless Latin. Most of the English boys, being Protestants, did not have to worry about Confession and even the boys who were Roman Catholic didn't seem over bothered, and figured that what the priests did not know would not hurt them.

For three years Andre had managed to get himself selected for summer camps where the majority of the cadets were English. Being a drummer, and with perfect recommendations from his Instructors, his requests met with little opposition. He was also Harry's special protégé, and where Harry went so went Andre.

Andre was now 15 years old and every summer for three years he had watched each morning as Harry and the Twins and other boys, too numerous to remember or count, crawled from their bunks, their underpants tented with their morning erections. He had silently watched them strip off their underpants, their hard smooth penises bouncing as the tight, restricting cloth was removed. He had listened to the boasts and comparisons and now, as he had then, Andre moaned softly. If only he could have reached out and touched . . . He looked at Nicholas, and longed to reach out to touch the handsome boy's smooth cheeks. He also longed to reach down and feel the soft perfection that he knew lay hidden beneath the dark serge fabric of Nicholas's bell-bottom trousers. Andre looked down at Nicholas's crotch and what he saw made his heart skip a beat. "Tabernac!" he breathed. Nicholas might be asleep but there was a very pronounced and more than respectable bulge in the front of his pants!

Andre very quickly averted his eyes but, like a moth drawn to a flame, he returned to the enticing and stimulating sight between Nicholas's legs. He felt his own penis hardening and quickly reached down to adjust it into a more comfortable position.

For some miles Andre sat there, mesmerized, listening to Nicholas's steady breathing, watching as the bulge pulsed slightly with each breath he took. As he watched Andre rubbed his own erection, a feeling so wonderfully stimulating that twice he brought himself to the edge, and while he wanted desperately to squirt, he just as desperately wanted to prolong as much as possible the delectable feelings that washed over him. Without thinking of the consequences he reached down and ran his finger along the bulge in Nicholas's trousers.

As Andre's finger felt the hardness beneath the fabric Nicholas stirred slightly but did not wake up.

Andre continued his stroking for a few minutes and then, emboldened by Nicholas's continued inactivity, reached out and slowly drew down the zipper of his friend's trousers. When Nicholas did not react Andre, who could feel his own erection throbbing, unbuckled Nicholas's belt, popped the button on his trousers and pulled them open, revealing a white expanse of starched gunshirt. As carefully as he could Andre pulled up Nicholas's stiffly starched gunshirt. His eyes widened and he gasped slightly. In the dim light cast by the overhead light was . . . revealed, jutting proudly from the slit in Nicholas's white boxer shorts was his magnificent, light tan and very pink, erect penis.

Cautiously, his hand trembling slightly, Andre reached out to touch the dark pink flesh of Nicholas's perfect, mushroom-shaped helmet. Nicholas's penis twitched at Andre's touch and a small, gemlike drop of clear liquid oozed out of the pee-slit. Entranced, Andre watched as the small drop of liquid ambrosia slowly oozed down the gentle curve of Nicholas's dark pink mushroom. Almost immediately another, larger drop appeared. Andre's finger touched the crystal droplet of heaven and lifted it to his lips. His tongue flicked out and for the first time Andre tasted nature's wonderful lubricant, shuddering at the delight of it. He had never tasted anything like it and immediately wanted more. He lowered his head and the glorious scent of Nicholas, musk, soap, cloth, cleanliness, all mingled together, assailed his nostrils. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Andre was almost overcome with the glorious incense that rose from Nicholas, smelling for the first time the magnificent odour that every male produces.

Leaning down, Andre pressed his lips against the underside of Nicholas's erection, touching the sweet spot just where the shaft joined the delicious, curving head, his lips savouring the warmth of the smooth skin. He closed his eyes and tasted . . . Mon Dieu and tabernac, it was so terribly warm and sweet, tasting like nothing Andre had ever tasted before.

At the soft touch of Andre's lips Nicholas's erection jerked again and another drop of clear fluid appeared as if by magic from the finely cut slit in the curving, smooth surface of the dark crimson glans.

Groaning, Andre slipped his hand into the wide fly of Nicholas's boxers and felt the thick bush of pubic hair surrounding the base of the six or so inches of pink and tan perfection his lips worshipped. Andre tried, but failed to slip his hand further into the white boxers, unable to stroke and fondle what he knew to be a set of perfect, oval, low-hanging testicles. Intoxicated with Nicholas, Andre slowly sniffed his way up the perfect shaft, his warm breath softly caressing the barely seen vein that bisected the underside of Nicholas's erection. He kissed and licked Nicholas's spongy-hard glans and with his finger he traced the length of Nicholas's hardon, the first hard male flesh other than his own that he had ever touched. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he did not see Nicholas' eyes snap open then close quickly, nor did he hear the soft, low sigh that escaped Nicholas's lips.

Nicholas was not naive when it came to sex between boys. He went to an all boys school and had spent every summer for the past five of his 18 years in one Sea Cadet camp or another. He had always found the homoerotic bantering and rough housing stimulating and he was not stupid enough to believe that it was all talk and no action. Each summer Nicholas had seen pairs of boys drift off to their own private places. Back home he knew that there was a small storeroom above the stage of the school auditorium that could only be locked from the inside, a room where the Masters never ventured, a room where two boys could be alone. While he was aware of what was going on, Nicholas had never participated in anything. He masturbated, of course, sometimes as much as three times a day, but that was the limit of his sexual activity.

At first Nicholas had thought that all that talk about wet dreams was having an effect on his sleep patterns. He could feel that his dick was rock hard and thought that maybe, for the first time in ages, he was having a reve humide, which was fine with him. He was feeling some very pleasant feelings, made even more pleasant as a very soft and warm finger was drawn up and down the underside of his hardon. He squirmed slightly and spread his legs a little wider. What a strange dream he was having. A finger of all things was being . . . a FINGER! Nicholas opened his eyes and looked down. The front of his bell-bottoms was unzipped and his hard dick was poking out from the fly of his underpants. He watched as Andre's finger traced the length of his dick, paused to very lightly tease the small knot of skin directly under his helmet, and then slowly move again, retracing its way down to his balls. He was so enjoying the feelings coursing through his body that when Andre began teasing and twirling the thin hairs curling around the root of his dick he involuntarily clenched his butt muscles, which caused his dick to jump.

When Nicholas's cock jerked up and down Andre very quickly jerked his head and hand back, fearing that his fondling had awakened his new-found friend and even more afraid of Nicholas's reaction if he should wake up and find someone playing with his dick! As quickly as he had jerked his hand away Andre turned his head and pretended to be looking out of the window, barely daring to breathe. When nothing happened, Andre turned his head and looked at Nicholas's seemingly sleeping face. Nicholas's head was cocked slightly to one side and there was a slight smile on his lips. As Andre watched Nicholas spread his legs slightly wider, offering a little more room for exploration.

Nicholas had quite deliberately opened his legs wider. What Andre was doing to him was certainly better than a wet dream and as sure as fuck a hell of a lot better than when he jerked himself off. If Andre wanted to bring him off that was fine, though he wondered just how far the young French-Canadian was going to go.

Andre returned to caressing Nicholas, then bent down and ran his tongue gently over and around Nicholas's mushroom. Nicholas almost lost it. The warm wetness of Andre's tongue sent a shock wave of pleasure rampaging through Nicholas, and he began to moan quietly, thrusting his hips upward, offering Andre all of his hard cock, which so startled Andre that he quickly snapped his head backward. With his hand hovering over Nicholas's throbbing organ Andre, scarcely able to breathe, watched the face of the youth he wanted to taste and feel in every way possible. Nicholas was breathing rapidly through his nose, and making small moues of pleasure.

After what seemed like hours Nicholas settled down and Andre dared to move his hand again. His right hand grasped the pulsing, silk skinned flesh, his thumb slowly circling over and around the now almost purple coloured glans. He slipped his left hand into Nicholas's boxers, cupping and rolling the finely formed testicles, drawing the soft hairs covering Nicholas's smooth-skinned sac through his fingers. Though Nicholas squirmed and muttered Andre did not increase the tempo of his rubbing, massaging the precum slicked helmet with his thumb, caressing the smooth-ridged crown.

Nicholas could feel his balls tightening and the pressure building deep within his groin. The wave of intense ecstasy, an ecstasy he had never felt before, began rising, growing stronger and stronger. He was near, so very near, and he did not want it to end.

Andre almost had heart failure when Nicholas turned sideways and his arm reached out to embrace him. Nicholas buried his face in Andre's neck, his lips and tongue finding and nibbling and sucking the boy's ear. "Oh God, Andre, don't stop," Nicholas groaned harshly. "Don't stop, petit, don't stop!"

As Andre continued to rub his swollen mushroom, Nicholas sucked and rimmed Andre's ear with his tongue. Andre knew that Nicholas was very, very close. His fear gave way to wonderful contentment. He buried his face in Nicholas's chest, smelling the crisp, clean freshness of his gunshirt. Suddenly Nicholas's grip on Andre tightened. He thrust his hips forward and his body stiffened. "Gonna cum, petit . . . cumming, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!" Nicholas thrust again and a stream of semen flew from his piss slit and smashed against Andre's chest. Again and again Nicholas thrust forward, each time expelling an ever-decreasing stream of his nectar onto Andre's chest and gunshirt until finally, he was finished.

Andre continued to hold Nicholas's softening penis, waiting, wide-eyed that Nicholas had derived so much pleasure from a simple act of masturbation. Nicholas held Andre in a vicelike grip. "Oh, God, petit, that was good," he whispered, breathing harshly.

All too soon Nicholas pulled away from Andre. Wordlessly he smiled and leaned forward. Their lips met and parted and their tongues duelled briefly. Then Nicholas pulled away. "Be very quiet, petit," he warned as his hands found Andre's belt buckle.

Andre could feel his heart pounding as he watched Nicholas unbuckle his belt, then unbutton his trousers and spread them wide. He felt Nicholas's strong hands slide under the waistband of his underpants, then felt them and his trousers being pushed down to the middle of his thighs, revealing his smooth-skinned, hooded erection, which was slick and covered with the same clear liquid he had so lovingly licked from Nicholas.

Nicholas reached forward and ran his finger down Andre's covered erection, slowly gathering the precum. Then he lifted his finger to his lips and sucked it slowly into his mouth. Using his thumb and two fingers Nicholas slowly retracted Andre's foreskin, exposing his handsome, deep purple coloured glans. Holding the gathered skin firmly at the thick base of Andre's straight, engorged erection, Nicholas lowered his head and his lips kissed just the rounded dome of Andre's mushroom. Then Nicholas's mouth opened and he slowly engulfed Andre's slim, smooth erection, not stopping until his nose was buried in the soft, curly forest that surrounded the base of the French-Canadian boy's penis.

Andre's head flew back and his mouth dropped open. Andre had dreamed of this night, had fantasized about this night but never, in all his wildest imaginings, had he conceived that the feelings that rampaged through his petit souris, his little mouse, would be so magnifique! His whole world was concentrated on the wetness that engulfed him. He felt the soft, firm, suctioning of Nicholas's mouth and within seconds every nerve in his body seemed to short-circuit. He was overcome with the sheer wonder of his orgasm as his dick pulsed and squirted stream after stream of his boyish juice into Nicholas's eager, waiting mouth.

Nicholas continued to suck greedily, awed by the amount of cum the little fellow was putting out. He was so enthralled by the wonderful bitter-sweetness of Andre that he was only vaguely aware of yet another orgasm passing through his body. He was so intent on cleaning the softening, warm, oh, so wonderful penis in his mouth that he barely felt his semen as it smashed onto his stomach and dribbled slowly down into his pubic hairs.

Andre writhed as Nicholas's tongue and mouth continued to suck and lick and finally, unable to bear the delicious agony any longer he pulled away. He slumped heavily against the side of the bus, breathing harshly, his heart pounding uncontrollably.

They sat looking at each other for the longest time. Then Nicholas reached out and with his finger scraped the cooling remnants of his ejaculation from Andre's gunshirt. He brought his finger close to Andre's mouth. "This is me," he whispered.

Andre leaned forward and took Nicholas's finger in his mouth. He taste buds savoured the sweetness. He sucked Nicholas's finger clean. Then he reached down and scraped the clotted remnants of Nicholas's eruption from his pubic hair. Once again Andre tasted the dark haired teenager. "And this is you," he replied, smiling shyly.

"Did it feel good, Andre?" asked Nicholas. Andre nodded slowly, then grinned. Nicholas snickered and leaned forward to whisper, "Ten Hail Mary's, ten Our Fathers, four Glory Be's, and a Novena to . . . Is there a saint for masturbators?"

"Tabernac! If there is I light so many candles to him the church, it burns down!"

They laughed quietly as they pulled off their gunshirts, turned them around, and then put them on back to front. They zipped up the front of their trousers and slipped on their jumpers, effectively hiding the evidence of their bliss. Andre leaned back against the seat and sighed happily. Nicholas looked at Andre and then leaned over and kissed his cheek. "What we did, Andre, it was good. I, um, I never felt so good when I did it to myself."

"J'aussi. It was better than good, Nicholas."

Nicholas grinned. "You're not going to say anything to anybody, are you Andre?"

Andre's face fell. "Why do you not call me petit?" he asked plaintively. "I like it when you do."

Nicholas leaned over and gave Andre's parts a squeeze. "Maybe because you're not so petit," he laughed quietly.

"Maybe so, Nicholas. But I like it when you call me petit. It makes me feel, you know, special to you."

"You are. Even more so now." Nicholas could feel Andre hardening under the fabric. "We have to be careful, petit. No one can ever know. You can't even tell about it in Confession."

Andre reached over and returned Nicholas's gesture. He giggled and snorted. "There are things a woman should not see. There are also things a priest should not hear, tu comprenez, cher?"

"Je comprends, mon pas aussi peu d'Andre."

They sat quietly for a while, and then Andre spoke. "Nicholas, maybe, we can sin again, yes?"

Finally, they were back. It was well past midnight when the convoy swung off of Comox Road, trundled across the causeway and down the Spit, groaning to a halt in front of the Headquarters Building. They were met by the Duty Officer, Wally Higman, and Little Big Man, both of whom had been standing Watch-On-Watch all weekend and were anxious for their relief. Dave Eddy, still pouting from Chef's stinging rebuke, was not amused when Wally told him he had the duty, nor was Anson when Little Big Man all but threw the POOD armband at him.

As The Gunner, Andy and Kyle began supervising the unloading of the buses, Ray and The Phantom went to Chef's car and helped him take the two sleeping Makee-Learns from the back seat. "Little bastards are pretending, if you ask me," rumbled Chef as he handed Joey to The Phantom.

"Count yourself lucky, Chef," replied The Phantom, "At least they aren't standing by the roadway waving their dicks at the passing traffic." Chef chuckled and placed Randy in Ray's welcoming arms. "Put them to bed, and get some sleep, lads. Breakfast still has to be served at 0630."

The Phantom and Ray carried the boys into their barracks, stripped them down to their underpants and put them to bed. As he drew the coverlet over Joey, The Phantom winked at Ray. He reached down and patted Joey's round, firm behind. "You know, Ray, Joey's got a really nice bum."

Joey opened one eye and stuck out his tongue. "You keep feeling it and I'll show what else I have that is really nice." Then he grinned.

The Phantom shook his head. "You little stinker! You were pretending to be asleep."

"Bet your ass on that, Phantom," came Randy's voice. "If we're sleeping we ain't helping to unload the bus!"

"Well the next time you pretend to be asleep don't scrunch your faces up so much. Its a dead give-away," said Ray. He tweaked Randy's button nose and told him to get to sleep.

The Makee-Learns said goodnight and snuggled into their pillows and covers.

The buses were quickly unloaded and the cadets dispersed. Tomorrow was another workday and the fun times were over. The Twins decided that while the idea of a short session in their special place in the woods was tempting, even they needed some sleep. After helping with the unloading they went off to bed.

Harry, with Greg in tow, saw to the storing of the drums and instrument cases in the tall ranks of metal shelving that lined the main storeroom in the School of Wind. Although each drummer and musician was responsible for his own instrument, Harry liked to make sure that everything was back where it should be.

When the last drum was on its assigned shelf, and the last trumpet safely nested with its mates, Harry turned out the storeroom lights and headed for the doors leading to the parade square. Greg stopped him. "Harry, about this morning," he said quietly.

Harry looked at him and shrugged. "What about this morning?"

Greg looked around. He had decided to have it out once and for all with Harry and he did not feel like discussing their sex life in the main corridor of the School of Wind. "Can we go someplace private?" he asked.

Harry sighed. "Greg, it's late. We both have to get up soon, I'm really not . . ."

"I just want to talk, nothing more!" snapped Greg.

"Okay," agreed Harry. He led Greg down the corridor and into The Unwinding Room (named in honour of the Royal Marine Band's rehearsal room on board the Royal Yacht), a long, narrow chamber fitted with comfortable settees and low tables. The room was the unofficial Cadet Smoking Room. They sat on opposite sides of the room. From Greg's tone Harry knew that their relationship was about to take a new course. "Well?" Harry asked presently.

"Harry, do you love me?" asked Greg earnestly.

Harry thought a moment, and then he nodded. "Yes, I do." He held up his hand. "But not the way you think. He leaned forward and rubbed his hand through his hair. Then he looked directly at Greg. "I love you, Greg, yes. I love you for the warmth I feel when we're together. I love you for the goofy grin you get on your face when you're trying to figure out if I am serious or just pulling your pisser. I love you for your friendship. I love you for the way you treat the young kids. I love you for so many different reasons."

"Not the least being the way I suck your cock!" Greg glared at Harry. "As a summer fuck I'm pretty good at that, aren't I?"

Harry ignored Greg's crudity. "Greg, the sex between us, the things we did together, yes, I enjoyed them. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't. Please believe me, Greg, I enjoy being with you." He was very calm. He had no desire to hurt Greg, but Greg had to be made to understand that their relationship was not going to be what he wanted it to be. "Greg, you want me to give you something I can't give you. You want me to feel something I cannot feel."

"In other words, I'm not Stefan!" Greg snorted. "I'm good enough to suck your dick but I'm not good enough for anything else!"

"Greg, please be reasonable. I never, ever, said that I felt about you the way I feel about Stefan. I never, ever, made a move toward you. Until we slept together in Victoria I never expected that we would end up doing the things we did. From that day in Powell River until that night we first slept together you refused to even think about having sex with me. You were the one who protested, over and over again, that you would never be a queer."

Greg squirmed uneasily. The truth was sometimes hard to take. "I didn't notice you saying no," he replied coolly.

Harry smiled sadly. "It felt good, it really did."

"But not so good as when Stefan did it to you!"

Harry's fists tightened. He did not lose his temper, but his anger was rising. "Stefan has nothing to do with us, Greg. What is between him and me is between him and me. What is between you and me is between us."

"The only thing between you and me is Stefan!" Greg laid his head against the back of the settee. "Cory warned me, you warned me. Shit, I told myself that I could make you change the way you feel about Stefan. But I can't, can I?"

"No, Greg, you can't."

"Even though you know he's only a 13-year-old kid? How the fuck can a 13-year-old kid know what he wants or what he feels? For all you know the first thing he did when he got home was to latch on to some other guy. For all you know, you were just his summer fuck!" The look on Harry's face told Greg that he had crossed the line.

Very slowly Harry stood up. There was sadness in his eyes. "Greg, I was willing to love you, in my own way. I was willing to hold you and be your friend. I have never pretended to be in love with you, and I have never lied to you about the way I feel about Stefan. He's young, yes, but he knows what he wants when it comes to him and me. I know how he feels about me. And I know how he feels about other guys. I talked to him the night before we went to Victoria. There are no other guys. He has never touched another guy, and he never will."

"Oh, so you're psychic, now?" asked Greg, his words dripping with venom.

"In a way, yes." Harry touched his heart. "When you are deeply, deeply in love with someone and he is just as deeply in love with you, you know, here, in your heart. You know that just as your love for him will never die, his love for you will never die, will never be compromised." He walked to the door and opened it. He turned and looked at Greg. "My one wish for you, Greg, is that one day you feel for someone the way I feel for Stefan." He reached toward the light switch. "We're finished, then," replied Greg, his face stony. It was a statement, not a question.

Harry nodded and turned out the lights.

Anson glanced at his watch and sighed quietly. He was sitting behind the narrow counter that divided the room into a small waiting area and the Guard Room. He yawned, and then unconsciously scratched his parts. 0230, and no relief in sight until 0345, when the Morning Watchmen came on duty. Being Duty Petty Officer sucked big time.

Rising from the desk, Anson wandered over to the Officer of the Day's desk where he glanced through the Shake Book. No one had requested a wake up call before 0330, when he had to go and shake the cooks. The Night Order Book contained nothing out of the ordinary. Anson returned to his seat by the counter, reached into the drawer where the Duty Hands kept their "reading material" and pulled out the latest skin book making the rounds. He opened the magazine to the centrefold and held it open, frankly admiring the photograph of a big, busty brunette. She wasn't bad, except that her pussy was shaven and the lips of her vagina hung down, which caused Anson to grimace. Some guys might get off on some girl's gunga hanging down, but he did not. Anson's slavering was interrupted by an explosive laugh from one corner of the room where Tim and Gordy, the two Duty Hands, were playing cards and smoking cigarettes. Ordinarily cadets were not allowed to smoke at all, but Sub-Lieutenant Eddy, the Duty Officer, was snoring away in the Duty Officer's cabin and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Anson was bored, even with the skin book. A cunt was a cunt, and unless the body surrounding it was really something, looking at pussy pictures paled after awhile. Besides, he usually popped a bone, and the more he looked the hornier he got, which meant that he'd have to nip into the heads and take care of business. "Jesus," he thought as he put the book away in its hiding place, "I sure wish that guy would come back."

Anson remembered his first real blow job as if it were yesterday, so much so that he jacked off almost every night thinking about it. In all his 15 years he had never felt anything like the feelings he felt that night as his thick boner was sucked into that warm, moist mouth, and when he shot his wad he had all but passed out from the intensity of it. Shit, he was rock hard from just thinking about it. Which had never happened to him after his first, disastrous, attempt with his then girlfriend who, being a good Catholic girl, had allowed only so much intimacy, and fucking her, which is what he had wanted to do from the get go, was not on the cards. He had managed, by whining, pleading, begging, and swearing that it was not a sin at all, to con her into taking his dick in her mouth, which had felt great. At least he thought it had been great, not having anything to compare the experience to. Now he knew better, thanks to that one visit in the middle of the night.

He reached into his bells and shoved his hand under the elastic band of his briefs and adjusted his thick, throbbing, seven inches, hoping that the other two cadets were too involved in their stupid card game to notice what he was doing. What intrigued Anson, and really set his dick to throbbing, was his comparison of the two blow jobs. One blow job really since the first one hardly counted, seeing as how he hadn't cum, and she'd only taken the head of his dick in her mouth, and hadn't really sucked on it at all. What she had done was scrape his dick with her teeth, and squeezed his balls so hard that they swelled the next day, and she had bitten him! "Bitch," he muttered unkindly under his breath.

Anson instantly regretted the epithet. It really wasn't her fault. He'd gotten so carried away with what she was doing to him that at the moment of truth he had tried shoving every inch of his hard dick down her throat, which caused her to gag and pull on his balls and to bite him. He'd been so sore that he hadn't been able to beat off for a week! At least she hadn't blabbed it all over the school!

The guy now - and it had been a guy, Anson was sure of that - had sucked him from root to helmet and done things to his dick that he never thought possible, and his orgasm had been so massive he'd sworn he'd almost died from the pleasure. And the guy had swallowed, which at first had grossed Anson out. Until that night, a few days later, when, after masturbating, and thinking about getting sucked off, and cumming a monster load in his briefs, Anson had reached down and idly rubbed his still warm cum, massaging it into his skin. Sighing with the contentment that comes from a really good wank, he had lifted his fingers to his lips. His tongue had flashed out and before he really knew it he was eating his own thick juice.

Up to that point Anson had thought that he was like most other guys, and like most guys even thinking about actually eating cum was repugnant to him. However, once he'd tasted the salty-sweetness of the fluids his body produced, he had changed his mind. It wasn't all that bad, really. In fact, it was pretty good; so much so that he had licked his fingers clean almost every time he beat off. He groaned quietly. Enough was enough. Every time he moved and squirmed the fabric of his underpants rubbed against the screamingly sensitive underside of his helmet and he was afraid he'd pop his puppy right where he was sitting. And just thinking about that night, when his dick had been licked and sucked outside his underpants, and when the guy had put his mouth over the top of his dick . . .

Anson had to leave. If he didn't beat off, like right fucking now, he'd explode. He quickly adjusted his throbbing stiffy and headed for the door. "Off to do Rounds," he called out hurriedly as he walked out the door and into the night.

All but running across the road and into the shadows cast by the looming bulk of the Mess Hall, Anson hurried around the corner of the Mess Hall and quickly unzipped, pulling his throbbing, leaking erection from his pants, spat on his hand and rubbed his spit-coated fingers around the tip of his dick. His large, mushroom-shaped head was deep red and engorged with blood. With his thumb he rubbed the tight surface of his helmet and with his forefinger the small bit of scar tissue just under the curve of his crown.

Almost immediately his dick began to spasm and Anson felt his cum-laden balls tighten, readying the explosion that soon overwhelmed him. His eyes rolled back and he groaned loudly. He thrust his hips forward, fucking the air as a huge stream of his thick cream blasted out of his distended piss slit and onto the gravel pathway. Three more equally huge jets squirted outward from Anson's dick, and then, as his balls began to empty, the force of his ejaculation diminished and small streams of cum oozed down his fingers and over the back of his hand. He leaned against the wall and continued to squeeze and pump his heated organ, until only the smallest of drops oozed out. Breathing harshly, his face contorted with the indescribable pleasure he had just visited on himself, he lifted his hand and slowly licked it clean, savouring every drop of his juice.

When his breathing returned to normal, or at least as normal as it was ever going to be after that orgasm, Anson stuffed his shrinking dick into his pants and hurried into the Cooks Barracks. He went immediately into the wash place and cleaned his hands and the front of his bell-bottoms with a wet paper towel. He splashed some water over his face and then looked at himself in the mirror. His normal, pink, healthy complexioned face was splotched and flushed. "Jesus," he thought with a grin, "that was almost as good as when the guy did me."

Reaching down, Anson felt his inflamed balls through his trousers. "I have got to get me girl," he decided as he massaged himself into another massive erection. Then he thought, "No, fuck buddy." He breathed into the night and whispered, "A fuck buddy, a buddy who would . . ."

Anson began squeezing his hard, slick penis rhythmically. "Yeah," he thought, "a fuck buddy who would do to him what the guy who had come in the night had done!" He whimpered with pleasure as his penis throbbed and the tingling feeling began to swell from his groin.

As he manipulated his throbbing erection Anson asked himself where in hell would he find a guy like the one who had done such wonderful things to him that the memories of that night were engraved in his brain? Where would he find another guy who could lick and suck his dick through his Hanes and send him soaring through the ether and make him feel like fireworks were exploding in his drawers? Was there another guy out there who could cause his dick to swell so much that it popped out of the front of his briefs? Could there be another guy who could suck on the head of his dick so hard that he came like a racehorse?

"A fuck buddy," Anson thought again. "Yeah, a fuck buddy just like that guy. A fuck buddy who can make me have an orgasm so powerful that I just have to look down to make sure that there isn't a mushroom cloud rising above my crotch. A fuck buddy who is so good that when he leaves my dick will stay so hard I'll have to jerk off twice more before the damn thing will go back to sleep. A fuck buddy who . . ."

"God damn, God Damn!" Anson muttered angrily. He was hard again and he could feel his erection pressing firmly against the fabric of his underwear. He left off squeezing himself and splashed more cold water on his face. "I have got to stop thinking this way. Shit, I have Rounds to do!"

Cold water did nothing for him. Anson's dick refused to go down so he opened the front of his trousers and pulled down his briefs. Standing on his toes Anson pushed his dick down until the head was pointing into the sink. Breathing heavily he closed his eyes and began to masturbate furiously, pumping madly and within minutes a shock wave of delight set his body to trembling. Grunting, he blew a massive load into the sink, biting his lip to keep from crying out as four thick, successive streams of his thick cream splattered across the porcelain.

When he had finished cumming Anson cleaned first his dick, then washed his semen down the drain of the sink. "Gosh, I sure hope nobody heard me," he thought as he hurried from the washplace and into the barracks. He moved his flashlight, which was fitted with a red plastic lens, around the sleeping area, and when he saw that nobody was staring back at him, grinning, Anson breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was normal and the cadets were all sound asleep.

As he stood there, listening and watching, Anson wondered if this Mess was anything like his own when the lights went out, with half the guys trying hard not to listen to the other half trying hard not to make any noise as they jerked off!

Anson had to smile at the thought of what really went on in the dark. After the guys had stopped coughing, grunting, groaning and farting, and settled down, would come the soft, rhythmic rustle of sheets and the barely audible heavy breathing as guys who thought they were masters of the silent jerk off took care of business. To be fair, Anson was one of them, and he always put his pillow over his head. It helped to muffle his groans when he came.

Shit, everybody did it, even the younger guys, who didn't have to take a shot mat, or a towel or an old sock to bed with him because they weren't old enough to squirt anything yet.

The red tinted light passed over the sleeping Ray, who was bundled up, with just the top of his head showing above the covers. Anson wondered if Ray might . . . Then he dismissed the thought. Ray was a nice guy, very quiet, but didn't seem to be the type to fuck around with a guy. Not that Anson knew what that type was. You could never tell, as he had learned one night back home when his brother's team-mates (football, what else?) had held a celebratory beer bash and sleep over after winning the Provincial High School Championships.

They were all such jocks, his brother Phillip, called The Assistant, included. Always bragging about how big their dicks were, even when they all knew that not one of them could muster over seven inches, although Phillip's was as thick as a good-sized cucumber. To hear them talk they all had ten inches, minimum, and balls as big as tennis balls. And they were always crowing and going on about which chick they'd fucked, or wanted to fuck, and how they could always tell when some other guy was queer. His brother's best friend, a jerk named Duncan claimed to have anti-fag "gaydar" and hooted that he could tell a fag from a hundred yards on a rainy day.

Anson snorted. There must have been a major systems failure, or else how come, after boozing the night away and watching porno flicks that Mikey Dorion had filched from his father's stash, how come Duncan had ended up stretched out on the living room floor with his Jockeys around his ankles and his dick in Kip Massinger's mouth? Sometimes it paid to sleep on the couch.

Jocks could be such assholes! "Anti-fag gaydar!" thought Anson. "What a crock of shit!" As if he needed anything like that around here. All you had to do was keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Everybody knew about the Twins. Not as well known was Harry's passion for Stefan. Even less known was that Brian and Dylan were getting it on together. Anson had seen them together. He'd seen them, long after Lights Out, after some sort of an argument, when Brian had pulled down the front of Dylan's briefs and sucked him off. He hadn't said anything, and pretended to be asleep. What they did was their business, the lucky sods!

A couple of times after that, when he'd been on duty, and done early Rounds, Brian's and Dylan's bunks had been empty. Well, at least they were discreet and didn't flaunt what they were doing. Which was okay. At least the two biggest jerks on board didn't know anything about what Brian and Dylan were up to. Two Strokes wasn't too bad. He had actually calmed down quite a bit since that sailing trip, and hadn't cracked off too much with his anti-gay remarks. If there was anybody they had to worry about it was Little Big Man, the little fuck. That little bastard was trouble from the word go.

Anson's light passed over the sleeping Randy, who was lying on his side, hugging his pillow, in his own bed for a change, and not in Joey's bunk, all cuddled up with his friend, their arms entwined and heads touching.

In a way Anson envied the two Makee-Learns. They were closer than brothers, really, and sometimes it was nice to just cuddle up to someone you loved. He'd slept with his brother, Phillip, when they were in Victoria, but they had both stayed well on their own side of the bed. Not like when they were little, when they used to sleep together, and laugh and giggle half the night, or at least until their mother yelled at them to settle down and GO TO SLEEP!

Anson wondered if Phillip and Mike ever fooled around. They did just about everything else together. They were tight, but Anson thought that they were more interested in their silly body building and working out routines than fooling around. It was too bad, because actually Phillip had a pretty nice dick. He was smaller than Anson (who, by actual measurement was 7 1/4 inches, hard), and not nearly as thick, but his six-inch dick was smooth, and curved, sort of like a banana, which always made Anson snicker when he thought of it. His own woody stood up straight and true, and he could cause it to bounce up and down when he flexed his ass cheeks which, when combined with the length and thickness of his prize rosy-headed bone, had been quite a show stopper last year when he did QUEST.

Anson glanced over at Joey, who was lying on his back, his face grimacing and his hands clutching at his sheets. "Poor little bugger," thought Anson, "It looks like he's having a bad dream. But then at times this place would give the Devil nightmares."

Joey was dreaming. He was not having a nightmare or a bad dream. He was dreaming things that many boys on the cusp of puberty dreamed about. He was standing on the parade square. Joey could tell it was the parade square, because Val was out there yelling drill orders at all the guys. In the background he could see the Headquarters Building. The Band was there too, marching up and down and making a lot of noise. The funny thing was, nobody had any clothes on and their willies and their balls were bouncing in time to the music, and what was Greg doing up there? Harry, who had a really nice willy, which was fucking HUGE, and sticking straight out and dripping something, had his arm straight up in the air, holding Greg, who was spinning around and around, which Joey thought looked like fun, though he didn't think letting Harry hold his willy and spin him around, like he was doing to Greg, would be all that much fun. But if it wasn't fun why was Greg grinning like that?

In his deep subconscious Joey's brain took him around and around the hugely colourful parade square, whirling and turning. He heard Randy's high pitched giggle and stopped. Jeez, what was Randy doing like that? Randy was on his hands and knees, with his bum stuck in the air, which was really funny 'cause Randy was all brown, except for his bum, which was really white and, my goodness, why is Ray kneeling behind Randy like that? Why is Randy making those sounds, like a cat, mewling and growling? Oh, I see. Jeez, Ray's got a long tongue, and red too! Oh, he's licking Randy's bum! Gross! But if that was gross how come was Randy squirming and whimpering, and giggling, as Ray's tongue, like a long snake, slurped up and down his bum crack?

He heard moaning and turned. Hey, there were Todd and Cory. Jeez, they don't have any clothes on and hey, look at Todd's dick! Gosh it's big and look at the way it sticks straight out and . . . it's DRIPPING STUFF! And why was Cory sitting on Todd's shoulders that way? They weren't going to win a water fight with Cory sitting facing his brother that way and . . .oh, Todd was holding Cory really tight and Cory was pushing his bum in an out and OH LORDY! Cory's willy! Cory's willy was in Todd's mouth! And Todd was sucking on it like it was a big straw in a can of Coke and . . ."

Hey, something's happening . . . Hey, my willy is really hard and . . . Oh, that feels sooo goood, and Jeez, I think something is going on and . . . hey, Phantom why is my willy so big and in your mouth like that . . . Oh, my, don't stop, 'cause that really, really feels sooo goood and hey, what . . . oh, look out Phantom, something's gonna come out of my . . .

****** Joey awoke with a start, his body rigid. He was gripping his pillow, his hips pushed so far forward he thought his back was going to break. He could feel his willy jerking and oh, the feeling that he was feeling was like all the good things that had ever happened to him were all jumbled together like one big GIGANTIC fun time and, oh, Jesus, Jesus MURPHY! He felt the warm wetness and the stickiness, but could not stop his pumping. God it felt so goood, please God, don't let it stop . . .

Breathing rapidly, in short, raspy pants, Joey finally felt the head of his willy screaming at him to STOP, and he slowed, then lay there, grunting happily. He was wide-eyed now, covered in sweat, and, gosh, his body was hot. He rolled onto his back and wiped his hand across his forehead. Then he reached down and pushed his hands into his briefs. His willy was still a little hard, and slimy, and sticky and . . . and . . . Joey sat up sharply and banged his head against the bunk above him. "Fuck!" he swore, and then he tossed his covers aside. He opened the front of his briefs and peered in. "Yep," he thought, "it's wet. And the tip is all shiny." He reached in and ran his finger along the top of his bright red helmet, which caused him to yelp and wince. "Jeez, that's nice, but jeez, it hurts."

And what a mess! There was white stuff in his pubies, which was okay, 'cause he didn't have all that much down there anyway, but more than Randy, who only had a few scraggly ones and . . . Joey lifted his hand and sniffed the thick glob on his fingertip. He wasn't all that sure just what had happened to him, or what was on his fingertip, but his tongue inched slowly out of his mouth and licked the tip of his finger. "Wow!" he muttered in amazement. "Wow!"

Then Joey realized what had just happened to him. He quickly forgot that he had just tasted his own juice and reached over. He shook Randy violently. "Randy, wake up!" he whispered fiercely. "Randy, come on, I just cummed!"

Randy shook off Joey's shaking hand and struggled awake. "What's the matter? Is the place on fire?" he asked sleepily. "It better be, Joey, 'cause . . ."

"No, Randy, I just cummed," interrupted Joey as he shook his friend again.

"Wha . . .?"

Joey stood up and thrust his crotch in Randy's face. "Look, I cummed! I squirted!"

Randy quickly drew his head back, then leaned forward and sniffed loudly. "Smells funny," he said. He reached up and touched the front of Joey's underpants. Joey's extremely sensitive dick jerked under Randy's touch. Randy snatched his finger back. "You're all wet."

"Of course I am! I cummed. Look!" Joey pulled down the front of his briefs and proudly displayed the evidence of his first ejaculation. "I got it in my pubies, and my willy is all sticky."

Randy reached out and touched the circumcised head of Joey's semi-hard penis. "It sure is, and it's warm." He watched as Joey's semi grew into a full-blown boner. Somehow it seemed bigger and thicker than it had been the morning before. Looking at Joey's willy getting stiff caused his own penis to tingle and harden. He ran his finger down the underside of Joey's stiffy, which was sticking straight out and up from his friend's body. "It's warm all the way down to your balls. And slimy."

Randy's stroking finger felt so good that as it passed up and down his silky skinned penis Joey pushed his hips forward and groaned. Then he looked down at his grinning friend. "Wanna cuddle?"

Randy nodded, and pulled back the covers. "Yeah."

"Bloody," thought Mike Sunderland, the Chief PTI. "The whole fucking world is in a bloody, mean, miserable, cocksucker of a mood!" He looked around him and shook his head at the sight he was confronted with. Before him stood 182 of the surliest, most ornery, BLOODIEST cadets ever born!

Behind him stood Andy, Kyle and Dirty Dave the Deacon, none of whom seemed to be in any better mood than the cadets. Off to port stood the Senior Staff Cadets, and a big help they were, too, sniffed Mike. Tyler looked like he was constipated. Val was listless and out of sorts, looking like he'd just been told that he had a dose. Nicholas was a million miles away, with a goofy look on his face. He was also constantly rubbing the front of his shorts!

"God Damn!" Mike cursed for at least the thousandth time over taking this fucking job. He wondered just what the fuck he was doing, standing in the middle of a dusty patch of hard packed dirt, with a fucking Sirocco blowing up his shorts, with the Master at Arms and Cadet Chief Gunner Instructor mooching around, looking as if they were suffering from massive hangovers (they were, having killed one of the last two bottles of Val's grappa), while the fucking Yeoman of Signals was busily giving himself a hand wipe and dreaming about getting laid (he didn't have to dream. Andre had come into the Flag Locker to "help him put away the flags" and they had sinned - twice).

In front of the Sea Puppies Harry, who could almost always be counted on to keep the pot boiling, and at least to be good for a laugh, was quiet and subdued with a face on him one usually associated with funerals.

The Twins were looking daggers at each other, always a sure sign that they'd had a tiff (they had, Cory having taken exception to Todd accusing him of stealing his last pair of clean boxers), while Thumper, usually one of the happiest little fuckers in the world, was in a pet about something (a most justifiable pet, so far as Thumper was concerned, since his wanking routine had been disrupted, not once but twice! First by Greg, who had crashed and banged around the Gunroom half the night, then this morning by The Twins).

Mike sighed unhappily. About the only two cadets not suffering some form of distemper were Andre, who was grinning and blushing happily away in the Band Platoon, and Mal, who was a half-fucked diver and acted as if he was zonked out on nitrogen. He realized that this was unfair. Mal was a good friend, most of the time. Hell, they worked out together. He liked Mal, although after the weekend in Victoria he was determined never to share the same bed with Mal again. Mal was a restless sleeper. He tossed, he turned, he moaned, he groaned. When he wasn't huffing, shuffling or snorting, he was farting. It was like sharing the bed with the switch engine down in the railroad yards back home.

Mike realized that everybody was tired, with very few of them having had more than four or five hours sleep last night. He knew that he was frustrated as all get out, so he expected that there was a whole shit locker full of cadets who were just as frustrated as he was. Even Phillip, called The Assistant, had bitched about being hornier than a two-peckered owl.

Mike stared at the cadets (who stared back) and noted that there were a few unfriendly faces missing. Greg, who usually stuck so close to Harry that they seemed to be joined at the hip, was missing. He was a Day Man and should have been on parade. Little Big Man was also among the ranks of the missing, which meant that he was grabbing an unauthorized Guard and Steerage. Anson too, was not on parade, as he had stood the Mids and was authorized a Guard and Steerage. Brian and Dylan were not with the Gunners (which was not surprising seeing as how they were, at the moment, scrambling around The Gunner's office, where they had spent the night together, looking for their pants). David represented the Supply Department. Rob and Ryan, who should have been on parade, were nowhere in sight (they were spooned together, in a most compromising position, in Linen Stores, sound asleep).

All in all Mike was definitely not a happy Chief Physical Training Instructor. Nobody gave a fuck if they did their morning routine or not, and it was obvious that most, if not all of the cadets on parade would have much preferred to be in their beds. Which was not going to happen. The course outlines clearly stated morning exercise and morning exercise they would have.

With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm the morning routine began. Rather than beg, yell, cajole, scream or pout, Mike was content if most of the troops at least went through the motions, which the troops did with as ill a grace as possible and with a maximum of grumbling and complaining. When the last exercise was mercifully over, Mike turned the parade over to The Assistant and stomped off to his office in the Drill Shed.

The office was a spare, oblong cabin furnished with a desk, two chairs, and two lockers, where he and The Assistant stowed their extra clothes. It was a bleak, windowless chamber that smelled like a locker room. No matter. The cabin was a private space in a place where private spaces were valued more than rubies and fine gold.

There were other advantages. The door could be locked from the inside and there was a shower attached, which meant that the PTI staff could shower whenever they felt the need and, at least in his case, he did not have to suffer the slings and arrows of derision about the size of his parts, which happened every time he showered in the Gunroom washplace.

Mike sat behind the desk and looked despairingly at the pile of Cadet Trade Qualification books that covered most of the desk. Each and every cadet, from the Master at Arms down to the newest Sea Puppy, whether on course or not, if he did not bring such a book with him, was issued one when he did his In Routine. Each book was printed with a series of neatly printed and lettered squares, each square representing a part of the Trade training. Each square had to be initialled and certified to show that the owner of the book had actually completed the training. Each cadet, as part of his training, was required to participate in physical training exercises and it was Mike's job to certify that they had swum the required laps, performed the required number of push ups and knee bends, and managed to do the mile-and-a-half run in the time allotted without dropping dead from exhaustion.

Mike loathed the task. When all was said and done he would sign his name to upwards of a thousand books by the time the Training Year ended. He could have delegated most of the work to Phillip, but only if the holder of the book was subordinate in rank to him. This would have worked out well if Phillip had not been such a fucking jock and given to whining whenever he had to do some paperwork. Rather than listen to him, Mike signed all the books.

His stomach grumbled, telling him that it was breakfast time. This was, as far as Mike was concerned, another pain in the ass. If he wanted to eat breakfast he had to change into the rig of the day as sports gear was not allowed in the Mess Hall. He stood up and walked to his locker where he began stripping off. He sighed with relief as he pulled his jock down. Mike hated wearing it. The straps chafed his inner thighs, and he felt foolish wearing it. Given the size of his genitals he hardly needed a jock. The only reason he wore the damn thing was because Queen's Regulations for Cadets said he had to.

Mike rummaged in his locker and found the can of talcum powder. He shook a generous portion of the powder onto his hand and then rubbed it into the raw flesh between his legs. Then he examined the stubby growth of hairs on his upper lip. His new 'tache was coming along nicely. Now, if only his dick would grow a few more inches . . .

The door opened and The Assistant entered.

Phillip, called The Assistant, grinned. Mike was an okay guy and now that he'd gotten rid of those silly posing straps and had stopped shaving various and sundry body parts, he was actually starting to look human. Phillip sat in the chair in front of the desk and bent down to untie his sneakers. That done he pulled his sneakers off his feet, kicked them aside and began taking off his clothes. He looked at Mike who was scrunching up his face and looking in the mirror, probably wondering what he would look like when his moustache grew in. Mike saw him looking. "What's so funny?" he asked. "Don't think I can grow it?"

"Don't see why not," replied Phillip as he dropped his shorts and pushed down his jock. Like the Chief PTI, he was not wearing underwear. His thick, deep pink and tan penis hung softly over his large oval testicles. He did not fail to notice the quick once over Mike gave him and returned the inspection. Mike was small, but perfectly formed. The mushroomed shaped knob of Mike's penis curved gently and was just slightly larger that the thick shaft. As he reached down to unconsciously tweak the knob of his own penis Phillip said, "You've stopped shaving!" He indicated with a nod of his head the sparse patch of dark brown pubic hair growing around and above Mike's dick.

Mike chuckled and scratched his pubic bush. "Yes, I did. I thought this fucking bush of mine would never stop itching once I stopped shaving it." He pulled down on his penis and looked at his public bush. "It looks better this way, I think."

Phillip nodded, sat down in the chair and spread his legs. He reached down and began fingering the rosy pink head of his dick. Mike gulped as he saw Phillip's soft dick thicken and rise and he could feel his own dick stirring.

Mike continued to examine his face in the mirror, pretending to be looking for zits, his eyes riveted on Phillip's crotch. He had seen Phillip naked on a hundred occasions, and had never given the sight a second thought. But now, somehow, Phillip was . . . hot!

Phillip stood up, his now fully erect dick jutting at an upward angle from his body. He walked to where Mike was standing and slipped his arms around Mike, nesting his hardon in the crack of Mike's tight, round butt.

Mike jumped as Phillip began fondling and pinching his nipples. He stared into the mirror and saw Phillip staring back at him. Phillip smiled and bent his head. He gave Mike's broad shoulder a long, wet lick. Mike could not believe what was happening. Phillip was putting the make on him! "Phil . . . um . . .

Phillip, what are you . . ." He groaned as Phillip's fingers began rubbing his nipples.

"I like guys, Mike. I like them a lot," murmured Phillip as he moved his hands south. "And so do you." He began stroking Mike's small hardon.

Mike shivered with desire as Phillip's warm hands caressed him. He began to stammer a denial.

"No, Mike," murmured Phillip. "You like boys. You love getting your dick sucked and I love sucking dick."

"Phillip . . ."

"I saw you, Mike," whispered Phillip. "I saw you when that guy came into the Mess. I heard you." Phillip's voice was low, and full of passion.

The colour drained from Mike's face. "You saw us when we . . .?"

Phillip nodded and kissed the nape of Mike's neck. "And heard you beg for more."

Mike could feel a sticky wetness dribbling down the crack of his ass and he groaned as Phillip rubbed his thick, hard penis up and down. "Feel good?" asked Phillip in a deep whisper. Mike nodded. Phillip nuzzled Mike's neck and his hands again found Mike's small hardon. "Turn around," he directed.

They stood face to face and Phillip kissed Mike's lips. He reached around and his hands began kneading and pulling on Mike's muscular buttocks. Their crotches met and they began grinding their cocks together. Phillip giggled. "What's so funny?" asked Mike defensively.

"Your stubble. It tickles," replied Phillip referring to the new-grown hair around Mike's dick. "I'd better be careful. If I keep this up I'll blow my load and I don't want to do that yet."

Mike loved the feelings that were racing through him. He buried his head in the curve of Phillip's shoulders and began sucking gently. "Why me?" he asked between kisses.

"Do you want to ask questions or do you want to fuck?"

Mike stopped his kissing, shocked at Phillip's blatant sexuality. "Fuck?"

Phillip grinned and nodded. "Sure. I also like to fuck and be fucked."

Mike's jaw dropped. "You've fucked a guy?" he asked incredulously. "A guy's fucked you? But, Phillip, you, p . . . p . . . you play football!"

Phillip laughed so hard he lost his hardon. He sat down in the chair, his legs akimbo, shaking his head at Mike. "Playing football and being gay are not mutually exclusive," he said when he had calmed down. "Just because a guy plays football it does not mean that he doesn't like to fuck and suck." He beckoned Mike closer. "Shit, Mike, half the guys on my team would rather fool around with each other than some skinny cheerleader." He began sucking Mike's dick. Mike began moaning and his hips thrust in and out of Phillip's sucking mouth. He was very close to the edge when Phillip took his mouth away. "Not yet," murmured Phillip. He stood up and embraced Mike.

Andy and Kyle walked slowly across the parade square toward the Wardroom and as they neared the entrance Andy stripped off his tee and rubbed his chest and armpits. "These morning exercises are getting to be too much. I'll be glad when September comes and I'll hopefully just be a lazy freshman."

"I already am a lazy college dude," grinned Kyle. "I am also looking forward to September. At least then I can sleep until oh, eight or nine."

They entered the Wardroom, avoiding the lounge where Dave Eddy was sitting and staring morosely into the unlit fireplace. Last night their hopes for a quiet drink before bed had been shattered by Dave's bleating and moaning, not only over what had happened to him in the pool, but also about what Chef had suggested he do. Rather than listen to him moan they had gone to bed where they had made love and fallen asleep in each other's arms.

In their room they began getting ready for their day. They chatted about nothing, avoiding a subject they both knew was ultimately unavoidable. Their determination to talk the night before had been replaced by slow, wonderful, sex. Andy knew that they had to talk. His time at AURORA was limited, and would end the day after the final parade, which was not all that far off. He would return to Seattle and Kyle would go home, to Kingston, and Queen's University. He watched as Kyle carelessly pulled the covers off the bed that he was supposed to be sleeping in. This had been part of their morning ritual, as commonplace as taking a shower and shaving, and kept the maids from asking any embarrassing questions as to why, if there were two officers in the cabin, only one bed was slept in. "Kyle, leave that and sit down for a minute," he asked.

"The last time you asked me to sit down you jumped me." Kyle grinned and sat down.

"I didn't hear you screaming rape," retorted Andy. "While I do want your body I think we should get something settled."

"Yeah? What?" Kyle stirred uneasily. He knew what Andy was getting at and dreaded the answers he would give to Andy's questions.

"Us. Our future. That's if we have a future."

"We'll miss breakfast and I really don't want to talk about it right now." Kyle stood up and began looking for a clean shirt. "I want us to have a future, Andy, but . . ."

"The inevitable but," groaned Andy. He lay back and stared at the deckhead.

Kyle sat on his own bed and looked at Andy. "I love you, Andy, you know that. I want us to be together, always. But we have to be realistic. It's not going to happen."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it!" Andy said harshly. "You just cannot say in one breath that you love me and want to be with me always and in the next tell me it's not going to happen." He sat up and stared angrily at Kyle.

Kyle stared back. He felt very sad and hated what he was about to do. "Andy, you're right, we have to talk. Now is as good a time as any." Kyle ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair. "Andy, I have three more years before I finish university. You haven't even started. You want a career in the Marines, a service that just happens to be the most homophobic of all the U.S. Services. If you get caught living with me, in a homosexual relationship, I get deported, shipped home to Canada. You get court-martialled and sent to some dismal Navy prison, and I can imagine how you'd be treated!"

"I'm willing to risk that, Kyle," snapped Andy. "And I do not have to join the Marines, and who said anything about a career?"

"Andy, every time you talk about the Marines it's like your saying Mass! You're so intense and sooner or later you're going to realize that the Marines are where you want to be. I see it in your eyes and I hear it in your voice."

"Maybe I do," replied Andy with reluctance. "But if it means losing you . . ."

"Andy, do not ever lay that shit on me! You haven't lost me but you will if you say one more word about not joining the Marines. I'll move into Cabin 5 and you can spend the rest of your time here beating off to whatever fantasy you can dream up."

"Kyle, I . . ." he looked at Kyle pleadingly.

Kyle shook his head. "Andy, sooner or later we have to face the fact that what we want to do is not on the cards. Are you prepared to tell your folks that you're gay? I sure as hell can't tell my folks! Your career will take you all over the world. Where does that leave me? I just can't show up outside the gates of some barracks and announce that I'm your live-in lover!" He moved to Andy's bed and ran his hand along Andy's bare leg. "I love you, Andy, and I don't want to lose you. But I have to make my own way in the world. I want, no, I am, going to stay with the Sea Cadets until I leave Queen's. I love them and I won't desert them."

Andy could feel Kyle's hand moving slowly upward. "I don't want you to leave the cadets. I know how much they mean to you."

"We both have to look at the future, Andy. You won't leave the States, will you?"

"No. I can't. I need my VA benefits and the ROTC pay just to get through college. After that, I'm going to have to give back four or five years of service."

"With the option of staying in and making it a lifetime career?"

Andy sighed and nodded. "Yes. It's what I want. America is my home, Kyle."

"And Canada is mine." Kyle stopped molesting Andy and lay down beside him. "I want you, Andy, and I always will. I want to make a life with you, but it's not possible. We're two gay men who love each other and in both our countries what we do when we make love is illegal. What we want we cannot have, not in that world outside."

They embraced and kissed. "We better stop, or you know what is going to happen, Kyle," said Andy when they parted.

"I want it to happen, Andy," murmured Kyle. "I want it to happen every day. I want you near me always."

"But it's not to be." Andy's embrace was strong.

"In the future, no, but in the here, in the now, in this room, yes. We can be ourselves, we can love each other."

****** "Oh, my sweet God!" exclaimed Mike as he rolled off of Phillip's sweat-slicked body. They lay side by side on top of the desk where Mike had just spent all of two minutes fucking his brains out, pounding Phillip's ass, climaxing in an orgasm so thunderous that his balls ached. Turning his head Mike looked at Phillip, who was breathing steadily, with his eyes closed and a smug, satisfied smile on his face.

Lying beside Phillip, his body flushed with the afterglow of his first true sexual experience, Mike was at a loss as to what he should do next. He rolled on his side, raised himself on his left elbow and with the tips of the fingers on his right hand traced the outline of Phillip's profile. Phillip opened his eyes and his smile widened. Mike looked into his eyes. "Thanks, for . . ."

"Don't, Mike," snapped Phillip with a slight frown. Phillip did not mean to be curt, but he was beginning to have feelings for Mike that he was not at all sure he wanted to have. He had come into the cabin intent on seducing Mike, had done the deed, and now he needed to put things in perspective. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the desk. "Look, Mike, what we did was great. You don't have to thank me for having a little guy fun."

Mike was not surprised at Phillip's tone, and words. He'd more or less suspected that Phillip had only fucked him out of pity. "I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I've never done anything like that before, and . . ." He sat up abruptly and buried his face in his hands. "You can't have gotten anything out of it," he half-sobbed. "I didn't know what to do, and . . . shit, Phillip, my dick is so small, even when it's hard, that . . ."

Phillip reached around and put his hand on Mike's wide shoulder. "Come around and sit beside me, Mike," he said quietly. Mike got off the desk and walked around it to sit beside Phillip, who took his hand and slowly moved it up and down, first his chest, then his stomach, and then his pubic bush. "Feel the end of my dick," Phillip ordered softly. Mike did as he was told. "What do you feel?" asked Phillip.

"You're dick, it's sticky, and your chest, and . . ." Mike's eyes widened. "You're covered in cum!"

Nodding, Phillip reached down and gently rubbed the head of Mike's soft dick. "This little dick of yours made me blow a load. I've been fucked by guys with dicks four times as big as yours and none of them made me cum while they were doing me." He gave Mike a long, even look. "That alone should tell you something."

Mollified, Mike accepted that his dick was big enough to do the job. What he couldn't understand, however, was why Phillip had come on to him. He decided to adopt Phillip's attitude. If this was a one off, fine. Mike wanted to be told it was. "I want to know something, Phillip," he said carefully. "Why did you let me fuck you? Was it out of pity? Was it to satisfy your curiosity? Or was it that you had an itch that needed to be scratched and my little dick just happened to be handy?"

Phillip chuckled mirthlessly. "Mike, when I let a guy fuck me, it's because I want him to fuck me. I want him to be with me." He looked into Mike's eyes. "You've obviously figured out that you're not the first guy I've ever fucked."

Mike nodded.

"Understand, Mike, I'm not the village mattress who fucks every guy in sight and gushes and pretends to have an orgasm and then rushes off to giggle with her girlfriends about what a lousy lay you were."

Mike immediately thought of Two Strokes and of what had happened to him the year before. "Like that girl did to Two Strokes?"

Nodding, Phillip grinned. "That should teach him not to fool around with girls!" He reached down and cupped Mike's balls. "I like guys, Mike. I like being with them. Guys are always honest when it comes to sex. If a guy likes what you do to him, he tells you. If he doesn't like it, he tells you, and you both move on." Phillip's face softened and a whimsical smile formed on his lips. "I like having sex with guys, Mike," he said with whispered firmness. "I won't lie about that, not ever. I like it." He ran his thumb around the firm, warm knob of Mike's dick. "I like the way a guy feels, the way he smells, and the way he tastes." He gave Mike's hardening dick a firm squeeze. "Mike, I came in here because I wanted to have sex with you. I didn't come here out of curiosity, or pity, or to help out a guy with a small dick. Pity wasn't part of it, nor was the size of your dick."

Phillip jumped heavily to the deck, stretched, and rubbed his back. "That desk is fucking hard!" he said as he moved and sat down in the chair that they had pushed into the corner of the room when they had cleared the desk for action. He raised an eyebrow. "Mike, you're a nice guy, and I like you, a lot. There's a side of you that sort of gets me going." He cocked his head and smiled. "Your only problem is that you let the size of your dick get you down. Believe me, you don't have to worry about it."

Mike squirmed uncomfortably. "Shit, this desk is hard," he thought. "You don't have to listen to the guys calling you Tiny, or Gerbil Dick," he complained softly to Phillip.

Phillip sniffed and reached down to fist his soft organ. "You see this?" he asked as he waved his penis at Mike. "It grows to just under seven inches. It's a handsome weapon and big fucking deal! Nobody snuck into the Mess and sucked it, did they?" Uncertain of what he might actually have slept through, Mike nevertheless shook his head, no. Phillip's eyes flashed briefly. "Somebody did you, Mike, not once, but a couple of more times! Think about that! This guy came in and sucked your dick! There are two hundred-odd dicks on this shit ass piece of dirt and yours was the one he picked to suck!"

Mike thought a moment. "Are you saying that he wanted me, for me?"

"Don't look so surprised," returned Phillip. "The guy, whoever he is, snuck into the Mess. He sucked you off. He didn't go near Willy, or Jack, or Mal, or me! He went right to your bunk." Phillip shrugged. "And I went right to this cabin."

"You really mean that?" asked Mike, his tone doubtful.

Phillip nodded firmly. "I really mean that," he replied. "I did not come in here simply because I was, and am, horny. I told you, there's something about you that turns me on. I wanted to have sex with you. I didn't care about the size of your dick." He giggled. "I've seen it before, Mike." His face sobered. "I came in here because of you." He pointed his finger at Mike. "You."

Mike gave Phillip a steely look. "All right, you've had me. What does that make me, another notch on your belt? And what happens next?"

Phillip ignored Mike's tone and shrugged slowly. "You will never be a notch on my belt, Mike. As for what happens next? Well, that's up to you. I can't make you want to have sex with me again, and I wouldn't even try."

"Other fish to fry?" asked Mike snidely, afraid that Phillip would answer in the affirmative.

"Don't be silly," returned Phillip with a snort. "There are no other 'fish' around here that I'm interested in. You're the only guy I've been with all summer and I am not some slut that bends over and spreads his cheeks every time some horny messmate comes sniffing around with his hardon in his hand!"

"That's not likely to happen," said Mike. "Nobody knows that you like guys. Everybody thinks that you're straight, and a jock." He laughed caustically. "You sure had me fooled."

"And you me," retorted Phillip. "You are the last guy I would have thought would enjoy a little one-on-one with another guy."

Mike did not reply. He was surprised himself and would not deny that he had enjoyed everything that had happened to him.

"The same can be said for you," continued Phillip. He smiled softly. "It's best that nobody knows about such things. It avoids . . . unpleasantness."

Mike caught the note of cynicism in Phillip's words. "It wouldn't do for people such as Little Big Man, or Two Strokes, to find out that we like dick, you mean."

Phillip nodded his agreement. "Mike, I like dick. I don't deny that. But, I am very careful and having the other guys think that I am as straight as an arrow is exactly the way I want it. I don't go looking for sex and I don't advertise the fact that I like sex with guys. I only go with guys I know are willing and I do not do anything unless I am absolutely certain that he's willing. I try to avoid doing anything to cause anyone to think that I'm queer." He snickered. "Which is why I do not play the five two-fours and three porno flicks game."

"The what?"

Phillip leaned forward in his chair and looked at Mike. "Guys fool around, Mike, a lot of guys. They like getting their nut. They don't want the other guys thinking that they're fags or that they let some guy fuck them, or blow them, or that they sucked a dick. Being queer or liking sex with guys is a big no-no in the football team game, or the swimming team game, any sports team setting. The players are all GUYS, if you know what I mean."

Mike did. He'd seen the Senior Varsity, strutting and carrying on after the team had won a game. He'd seen the groupies hanging off their tall, muscular bodies. Football players were gods. "They have their reputations to think of," Mike said, thinking aloud.

Nodding, Phillip grinned. "Like I said, they're guys. They like sex, though, because, let's face it, only a guy can really satisfy another guy. Only a guy knows which parts of his body make him feel good, knows which buttons to push."

"So they play the game?"

"They play the game," confirmed Phillip. "They can't just come out and put the moves on a team mate, or ask to suck his dick. There are rules, and so long as you play by the rules, and keep your mouth shut about it, everybody's happy. So long as you stay within the team, because your team-mates are your buddies, and buddies help each other out, everybody's happy. So they play a little game called the after-the-game party."

Mike leaned back on his hands. "Back home the football team is always having a keg party at somebody's house. They all get drunk, is what I hear."

"They all get laid!" returned Phillip. "They go to these parties, which are just for team members. They drink beer, they watch some porno flicks, and, when the lights go out the fun begins. All cats are grey at night, Mike, and if a hand drifts over and starts playing with your dick - which you knew was going to happen in the first place - you are not going to yell rape now, are you?"

Mike thought a moment. "Not if you went to the party knowing that sooner or later some guy was going to go down on you. You can't rape the willing."

Laughing, Phillip said, "You are so right, because that is exactly what goes on."

"Not mention that if the word gets out you can always say that you were too drunk to know what you were doing and that somebody took advantage of you," replied Mike, joining in Phillip's laughter.

"Ah, but nobody talks about it," said Phillip. "They all play the game and keep their mouths shut. They also keep going back for more. The guys know what they like, and where to get it and . . ." he shrugged expressively. "I can get it on with just about every guy on my football team."

"Could, or have?" asked Mike pointedly.

"Could," affirmed Mike. "Since I don't care to let anyone know about me, I prefer not to play games when it comes to sex. There are 22 guys on my team and I could get in the sack with each one of them, if I wanted to." He paused, and then said quickly, "Well, 19 of them. Three don't turn me on."

"Too Neanderthal?" asked Mike.

"Not circumcised," returned Phillip. "I prefer guys who are."

Mike chuckled. "You sound like Cory."

"Cory? What has he got to do with it?"

A softness came over Mike's face. "Something bad happened to Cory when he was little. I only caught bits and pieces of the story so I really don't know what happened. All I know is that Cory won't go near a guy who isn't clipped."

Phillip shrugged. "I'm not that radical. I prefer guys who are circumcised, but it's not a requirement."

"Then why. . .?"

"They don't turn me on," replied Phillip, answering Mike's unasked question. "If a guy turns me on the state of his dick doesn't come into it." He began to fondle his soft penis and low-hanging testicles. "Mike, I've had sex with six guys on my football team. They pretend that it's just a guy thing, just sex between buddies. They never talk about it and the next day and pretend that nothing happened. Still, they keep coming back and I let them come back."

"You let them come back?"

Phillip looked steadily at Mike. "You have to understand that I'm not into sex just for the sake of having sex. I know guys - a certain quarterback comes to mind - who are so horny that the crack of dawn had better look out. He's also drop dead in the street gorgeous, with a beautiful set of parts . . ."

"And you haven't gotten into his pants?" asked Mike, a surprised look on his face.

"I haven't," replied Phillip with a shake of his head. "I haven't because, well, he just doesn't turn my crank." He saw the querulous look on Mike's face. "Mike, it doesn't matter how big a guy's dick is, or how beautiful it is, or if he's got low-hanging balls, or is circumcised." Phillip left off feeling himself and tapped his chest. "It's sort of like I have a switch in here. Most of the time it's in the off position. Then, along comes a guy and the switch moves up to 'on', and I get a tingling in the head of my cock and only six guys have done that to me." He smiled warmly. "Belay last, seven guys."

Mike's eyes widened. "I turn you on? I set the head of your dick to tingling?"

"Yes, Mike, you do," replied Phillip in all seriousness. "And the rest of me as well," he thought, not daring to say the words aloud.

Mike slid slowly from the desk and knelt before Phillip. He lowered his head and kissed the head of Phillip's soft dick. "I really turn you on?" he asked looked up at Phillip.

Phillip nodded slowly. "Yeah," he breathed.

Smiling, Mike took first the spongy head of Phillip's dick in his mouth, and then sucked in the full length of The Assistant's soft penis. Phillip sucked in his breath sharply. "Jesus, Mike."

"Mm?" Mike sucked slowly and gently, feeling Phillip's dick harden to sweet-tasting glory.

Phillip groaned and squirmed as Mike continued to suckle. "Mike," he gasped, "you keep that up and I'll nut!"

Mike withdrew and smiled a coy, enigmatic smile. "Oh, you're going to nut, but not just yet." He stood up and looked around for the jar of Vaseline, which had rolled into the opposite corner. He picked it up, opened it and then began coating Phillip's rock hard erection with the lubricant.

Phillip eyed Mike, knowing what was coming, and wondering how Mike planned on accomplishing his task. Mike silently finished lubing Phillip, tossed the jar aside and then reached down. Mike was a strong boy and he lifted Phillip from the chair with ease. Before Phillip could protest he was on the floor, on his back, his boner bouncing gently against his stomach. Mike continued to smile, his eyes twinkling, as he straddled Phillip and positioned his pink rosebud directly over the head of Phillip's dick. He reached down and grasped the slim, hard rod of flesh upright, guiding it as he began to lower his body.

"Mike, you don't have to do this," said Phillip with a grunt as he felt the broad, curving head of his dick slip into Mike. "Trust me, it's going to hurt like hell if you've never . . ."

"I want to give this to you," growled Mike. He gasped loudly as the head of Phillip's dick slid into him, biting his lip to keep from crying out as a bolt of excruciating pain streaked through him.

Phillip saw the grimace of pain on Mike's face and tried to pull away. He remembered with startling clarity the afternoon of his own deflowering, on a hard wooden bench in the high school locker room, at the penis of the star running back of the Junior Varsity (a stunning, dark-haired 14-year-old Adonis), a wild, animalistic coupling which left the running back a whimpering, exhausted wreck and Phillip, so lost in the thrall of his first fuck, and so physically satisfied, that he forgave the running back the suffering he had caused when, oblivious to Phillip's pain, he had rammed his sleek, slim penis into him.

Because he remembered his first experience, and because he did want Mike to reach the ultimate plateau of ecstasy, Phillip reached up and began to slowly rub Mike's hard nipples. "Take your time," he whispered. "Don't force it. Set your own pace and wait until your body gets used to me being in you."

Breathing heavily, Mike nodded and, after several minutes the pain diminished as the muscles of his rectum relaxed and accepted the unaccustomed intruder, the pain slowly being replaced by a feeling of magnificent fullness. Guided by instinct, Mike lowered his body and another inch or so of Phillip's throbbing erection slid into him. He could hear Phillip's heavy panting, and feel the blood as it surged through the vein that lined the underside of Phillip's cock, and groaned loudly as a lesser ribbon of pain rippled through his body.

Phillip lowered his hands and began to gently rub Mike's firm, thick thighs. "The worst is over," he murmured consolingly. "I promise you it will get better."

"It's . . . it's not too bad, now," replied Mike. He wasn't lying, or trying to be brave. The pain was leaving his body. He didn't know just how much of Phillip's dick was in him, but he was determined to take it all. He pushed his body lower suddenly a wave of SOMETHING flashed through him, obliterating any thought of pain and causing his dick, which up to then had been lying limply over his balls, literally to spring out, rock hard and pointing directly at Phillip. "Holy SHIT!" he yelped.

Phillip, who had felt the head of his cock nudge Mike's prostate, laughed softly. "Looks like I hit the right button."

"Oh yeah," groaned Mike as he raised, then lowered his body again. He shuddered with delight as the feeling roared through him again and he moaned loudly.

Phillip began to thrust upward, meeting Mike's downward movements. He carefully watched Mike's face for any sign of pain or discomfort. When it he was sure that Mike was enjoying their actions as much as he was, Phillip told him to stop.

Mike growled his displeasure. "What the hell do you mean, stop?" he demanded.

A smile broke Phillip's face. "Mike, you're driving me crazy," he declared. The combination of taking Mike's cherry, and the tightness of Mike's ass, was bringing Phillip closer and closer to the edge. "You keep that up and I'm gonna cum!" he glanced at Mike's boner, which was jutting into the air like the bowsprit of a sailing ship. A long, clear string of clear pre-cum joined the head of Mike's dick to the hollow of Phillip's navel. "And so will you!" he struggled against Mike's weight, pushing him backward and ignoring Mike's loud protests. "Just get off me and lie down on your back," instructed Phillip.

Mike rolled away from Phillip, and did as he'd been instructed. He watched as Phillip found the jar of Vaseline and re-lubed his thick, smooth penis. Phillip dropped to his knees between Mike outspread legs and grasped Mike's ankles. Before he knew it Mike's knees were brushing against his shoulders and Phillip's face was buried in his but crack. Mike felt a warm, sweet wetness cross the wrinkled flesh of his rosebud and all but leaped into the air.

Writhing and groaning Mike felt his dick trembling as Phillip's tongue washed his rosebud and then probed the wrinkled hole. He threw his arm over his mouth to muffle his screams of pleasure as Phillip's tongue entered him, raising his hips, demanding more, unable to control himself as the great pleasure overwhelmed him and his dick spasmed, sending a huge jet of semen to spatter across his chest. "Oh, shit! Oh fuck!" he moaned as two more jets of his thick cream shot from his enraged dick and he experienced his most monumental orgasm ever!

Satisfied that his gifted tongue had achieved the desired effect, Phillip straightened, shuffled forward and pressed the head of his iron-hard, dripping cock against Mike's rosebud. Mike pulled his legs back and raised his hips. "Do it," he ordered harshly. "I want to feel you in me!"

With slow, steady deliberation Phillip pressed forward, urging his partner to relax. Mike's sphincter resisted, then surrendered and the head of Phillips dick was again engulfed with the warm wetness of Mike's rectum. Phillip sucked in his breath and continued to push inward, resisting the urge to ram his dick into Mike, using every ounce of his willpower not to savagely pound Mike's ass. He set a slow deliberate pace, thrusting slowly in an out - long dicking the guys back home called it - and with every inward thrust the head of his penis brushed Mike's swollen prostate, which caused him to thrash and moan and his dick to buck.

Mike felt wave after wave of indescribable pleasure overwhelm him. He thrust back and whimpered, groaning louder and louder as he approached the inevitable plateau. He let go his ankles and reached out, pulling Phillip to him. "Fuck me, Phillip," he whispered in Phillip's ear as he wrapped his legs around Phillip's waist.

Phillip slid his hands under Mike's shoulders and pressed his lips against Mike's. They kissed deeply as Phillip continued his thrusting.

Overcome, Mike clutched at Phillip, his raspy bursts of breath breaking the silence of the room. Phillip increased the pace of his thrusting. He could feel Mike's dick, slick with pre-cum and sweat, rubbing against the heated skin of his abdomen. He could feel Mike's ass muscles tightening as he approached explosion. Phillip was close, so close . . .

Mike suddenly buried his face in the valley of Phillip's shoulder, his whole body tightening. This drove Phillip over the edge. "MIKE! I'm gonna cum . . . I'm gonna cum!" he moaned." He thrust upward and his body shook as his erection pulsed a stream of his thick cream deep into Mike.

Mike felt the first stream of Phillip's juices slam into him. His eyes rolled back and he felt his whole body stiffen as his dick began jerking and pulsing, his orgasm overwhelming him. It was for Mike the ultimate experience and he clutched Phillip's quivering body close.

They lay together, caressing each other's body, murmuring soft endearments until the were startled out of the reverie by the sounds of crashing, banging and instruments being tuned penetrated the stillness of the small room. Phillip leaped up and Mike rolled heavily away. "God damn it!" snarled Mike. "The fucking Band is out there!"

Phillip grew pale. "Shit man, I hope they didn't hear us!"

"I don't care if they did," returned Mike. He scowled at the scarred wooden deck, rubbed his sore butt, and then turned and enfolded Phillip in his thick, muscular arms. A tremor of desire passed through him as their dicks rubbed together. Mike looked deep into Phillip's eyes. "You said that it was up to me if we were to go on."

Phillip nodded.

"Good. It's settled then," said Mike. The firmness in his voice brooked no argument. "I'll be your summer fuck."

"But, that's not what I want," wailed Phillip silently.

Mike's head bobbed and he reached down to squeeze Phillip's dick. "We better think about cleaning up," he said, nodding toward the shambles that had replaced the normally neat and tidy office. The books and papers that had been spaced with neat precision on the polished surface of the desk were now an untidy heap, scattered around the desk where they had fallen when the impassioned lovers had swept the desk clean. Mike frowned slightly. "We have to get this place cleaned up," he said absently. He turned and reached into his locker for a towel and soap. "But first, we clean each other!"

Phillip grinned and ran his hand down the fine curvature of Mike's firm behind. "A shower sounds nice," he said, laughing.

Mike playfully pushed his newfound lover away. "Oh, no you don't, Phillip!" he warned. "We're going to shower, and nothing else. I'm hungry and I need my victuals. Cock and cum are all right for a light snack, but they sure aren't filling."

Pretending to pout his disappointment, Phillip found his clean towel and shampoo, and opened the door leading to the shower. He was about to enter when Mike's voice stopped him.

"Once I shower and dress, and after I have some breakfast, I think I'll wander over to stores and see if I can talk Rob out of one of those air mattresses that the Venture cadets use." He grinned and rubbed his ass again. "That floor is too damned hard!"

"See if they come in doubles," asked Phillip.

Mike laughed and put his arm around Phillip's slim waist. "There is just one thing, though," he said as he pulled Phillip into the shower.

"What's that?"

Mike nodded toward the door. "Don't you think that it might be a good idea if the next time you locked the door?"