Phantom 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 thumping your 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 your 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 and 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).

The Phantom Of Aurora: Chapter 4

The Gunner left the galley and walked towards the Drill Shed, where he had a small office. In his hand he gripped the slip of paper on which he had written The Phantom's measurements. Outwardly he was his usual calm self. Inwardly he was in turmoil. He was not as obtuse as Chef thought he was. He was fully aware that The Phantom had a huge crush on him, and he was just as aware that The Phantom had gotten a boner when his inseam was measured.

The how or the why of The Phantom's feelings for him were unimportant. What was important, at least as far as The Gunner was concerned was that it went no further than being a schoolboy crush, something that was never to be encouraged in any way and certainly never to be mentioned.

As he passed by the Engineering building The Gunner saw Ryan, the Engineering Storekeeper walk out of the building, heading for the Dockyard. He was as laden down as a pack mule with rolls of what looked to be white towels. The Gunner stopped Ryan and asked what he was carrying. "Engineering wipes, Chief. For the YAG squadron," explained Ryan. "They go through a lot."

The Gunner nodded, remembering now. Engineering wipes were huge, 3-foot by 3-foot squares of cotton fibre and paper towelling used to wipe oils spills and clean the engine rooms of the YAGs. They were highly absorbent and almost indestructible. He had a sudden idea. "Can you spare a roll, please?" he asked with a smile.

"Sure, Chief," replied Ryan as he handed The Gunner a roll of towelling. "Got some heavy duty cleaning to do?"

"In a manner of speaking, boychick," replied The Gunner. He thanked Ryan and walked to his office where he made a telephone call to Esquimalt. He spoke with an old Petty Officer, a man who had been around for years and knew where all the bodies were buried. The old Petty Officer owed The Gunner. Years ago, when The Gunner had been a young and not naive Able Seaman, the Petty Officer had tried to put the moves on him in the Fleet Club. The Gunner had politely refused the man's overtures, accepted a drink by way of apology, and never mentioned the incident again. Not one, but two brand new, never out of the package stewards jackets, three pairs of Pusser serge trousers, and a pair of black oxfords would be included in the Saturday morning duty run from NADEN.

The Gunner next called Halifax and spoke to the Master Corporal who was Weapons Yeoman in the Dockyard. As they spoke the love the man still had for The Gunner came through loudly. He and The Gunner had enjoyed a brief fling back in the dawn of time when they were both on an advanced Gunnery Course in Halifax. He still called from time to time, usually to reminisce and to recall their days together. The Weapons Yeoman was married, and had three sprogs, but he still called. They reminisced and by the time he hung up the telephone The Gunner was assured that two pairs of patent leather gaiters would be on the next White Knuckle flight from Halifax to Comox.

His shopping done, The Gunner considered his position with Phantom. He was a good kid, and not bad looking, but he was a kid. And so far as The Gunner was concerned he was untouchable.

The Gunner was fully aware of his attraction to young males. This attraction had drawn him to Joel when they had first met in Vancouver. That the attraction had grown into love was immaterial. Joel looked young, and acted young. He was also a civilian, which made him fair game. That The Phantom was also a civilian was of no consequence so far as The Gunner was concerned. The boy was part of the galley staff, was one of Chef's lambs, and he stood at the same level as the cadets. The Gunner considered himself to be just as responsible for The Phantom as he was for the other boys and could not, would not, be touched in any way. The Gunner would not embarrass him in any way but he would, in every way, discourage The Phantom if matters threatened to get out of hand.

The Gunner worked for a while on his part in the upcoming ceremonies to celebrate the Commanding Officer's fifty years of service then, shortly before 1600 picked up the roll of engine room wipes and strolled over to the Gunroom, still not all that sure what he was going to say.

Naval protocol dictated that The Gunner knock, then wait and when the door to the Gunroom was opened, ask permission to enter. The Gunroom was the Senior Cadets' home, and a no one, no matter what the rank or position, could enter without the consent of all those who lived there.

When he was admitted The Gunner saw that except for the Twins the Gunroom was packed with the senior ranking cadets. He removed his hat, thanked the Master at Arms (Tyler was de-facto president of the Gunroom Mess) for his consideration and asked the assembled cadets, who had braced to attention at his entry, to relax. "Please, guys, relax and sit down," he began. "I know you all have better things to do with your time but I have a bit of a job to do, so please bear with me."

The cadets sat on the wooden benches flanking the long mess table, or sprawled on the bunks.

"Guys, we have a bit of a problem," began The Gunner slowly. "To be honest, if it was up to me, I would not say anything, but . . ." He shrugged, as if to say, hey, shit rolls downhill and today I'm at the bottom of the hill. "Now, first of all, I am not pointing any fingers. Be sure of that. As I said, if it was up to me I'd say fuck it and forget it."

Some of the cadets snickered. They were well used to each other swearing like troopers but to hear an Instructor of The Gunner's stature doing it was something new.

The Gunner never talked down to the troops. He preferred to use the KISS principle, and was not at all afraid to show them that he was just as human as they were and if it meant using his vast vocabulary of swear words, so be it. "Here goes nothing," he thought. He cleared his throat in embarrassment and began. "Guys, I have to talk to you as Senior Cadets and ask that you talk to the younger guys. Being a God-fearing, Christian Gentleman, I hesitate to bring up such a distasteful subject." He deliberately grimaced to emphasize that he was here under duress. "However, needs must as needs does."

Tyler and Val, who knew exactly what was coming, squirmed uncomfortably. They knew what was going on and why The Gunner had come calling.

"Now, before I go on, I have some training aids," continued The Gunner. He opened the roll of cotton cloth/paper wipes and asked the Master at Arms to give one piece to each of the cadets. When they all had a piece he went on. "Guys, we have to do something about all the spunk that is being produced around here," he said bluntly.

Several jaws dropped and Thumper blushed beet red.

"That's one way to get their attention," thought Tyler as he grinned sheepishly at Val, who rolled his eyes and stifled a giggle. The Gunner tried to look stern and business like. "From all reports every swinging dick in the place is in overdrive which, in itself, is nothing bad." He saw that some of the boys had quizzical, puzzled looks on their faces. He sighed inwardly. This was going to be much more difficult than he had realized. He mentally cursed the Commanding Officer for putting him in such a position. He quickly decided to get on with it and damn the torpedoes! "The Base Laundry Officer has been complaining about the state of the sheets we send over for laundering. It appears that he has worn out three rocks trying to get the stains out!"

A titter of laughter rippled through the Gunroom as the image of the BLO, an overweight, short little man beating the linen against a rock came to several minds.

The Gunner looked around the room. His face sobered. "Gentlemen, the little man from Base has written to Father, complaining that the cadets of AURORA have been applying starch of a different nature on the sheets, as opposed to the starch you use on your gunshirts! In short, my young friends, I am talking about nocturnal manipulations of your penises, properly known as masturbating, resulting in a massive spraying of the bed linen and due to the excessive distribution of protein, unsightly stains!"

Thumper turned a deeper red as several heads turned and looked at him. A nervous, embarrassed chuckling accompanied the looks. Every boy in the room knew what masturbating was and starching the sheets had long been a euphemism for jerking off. The Gunner smiled a knowing smile and said, "Guys, beating your meat is nothing new. It is a normal biological function, nothing more, nothing less and every man and boy ever born does it or did it." He nodded forcefully. "We all have done it. Hell, when I was your age . . ."

There was stunned silence. A god did not admit to normal biological functions. The Gunner was fully aware that almost every boy in the room looked up to him. Hell, they even copied his haircut, for Christ's sake! Admitting that he actually beat off when he was younger might bring a few of the more starry-eyed back down to earth.

Recovering from his embarrassment The Gunner decided to lighten the mood. "Technique," he intoned, "is not a subject under discussion. Nobody cares if you use your right hand, your left hand, both hands, or no hands . . ."

Two Strokes and Jon glanced at Harry and giggled.

The Gunner saw the looks and snickered. "Come to think of it, if you need two hands you might need a double issue of these things, maybe even a triple." He grinned broadly and waited for the laughter to subside. Then he spoke seriously. "Look, guys, what it boils down to is this: at the moment of truth there is what is politely called an emission." He paused. "Where I come from it's called cumming like a racehorse." He shrugged and joined in the laughter, the turned to the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor. "During a jackstay transfer what is put on the deck in the dump zone to protect it from heavy loads?"

Val thought a moment. "Why, a shot mat, Gunner."

The Gunner beamed. "Got it in one, so he did." He held up a piece of wipe. He did not have to say anything. The cadets looked at The Gunner, then at the wipes they were all holding, then at The Gunner again. When they realized what The Gunner was getting at, they grinned and shook their heads. Even Little Big Man, who professed never to do such a thing, understood. The dump zone was their beds, the shot mat . . . well, it was the shot mat. They all got the message.

After his lecture in the Gunroom The Gunner returned to his office, closed up shop for the weekend and then drove over to the Mess Hall where he picked up Sandro, who needed his weekly ride into Courtenay. As a practicing, if not yet circumcised, Jew, Sandro attended two hours of religious training each Friday evening, then attended services in the small synagogue in Courtenay. After services he would be picked up by the Commanding Officer and would spend the Sabbath with Father and his wife, a matronly woman who spoiled Sandro outrageously. Sandro's only complaint was that she had held a long consultation with the rabbi and only cooked kosher, which Sandro for the most part did not mind. What he did mind was not being able to have bacon with his eggs for breakfast. As for the Commanding Officer, he was secretly delighted that after six daughters he could finally come home to find a raised toilet seat in the bathroom.

On Saturday Sandro would again attend shul. Mrs. Commanding Officer would be waiting for him when the service ended and they would drive off to visit the shops. The shopping done they would return home, pick up Father, and then go off for a slap-up lunch, usually in the Officers' Mess at CFB Comox where, so long as he observed the dietary laws, Sandro was allowed to stuff himself at the buffet. After lunch, it was back to AURORA.

After ensuring that Sandro had packed everything he needed for his overnighter - once he had forgotten clean underwear, which caused a minor crisis - they drove into Comox. While The Gunner changed into civvies Sandro had a Coke, and then they went on to Courtenay.

The Phantom watched them drive off. As silly as it was he felt envious of Sandro, who would be spending at least an hour alone with The Gunner. The Phantom sighed heavily, adjusted his hard on, and tried to concentrate on his work. He remained in the thrall of the Gunner's touch on his scrotum, even if it had been through two layers of cloth. He had tried to keep his mind off of it, and not to think about it and was in as big a daze as Ray. The Phantom desperately wanted to beat off, or at least pour cold water on it but Chef, who was pissed off at having not one, but two assistants mooning around the galley, grumbled and complained so much that The Phantom dared not leave. Dinnertime helped, as did the cleanup afterwards, although he was so engrossed in his euphoria that he forgot to check out the cadets.

Quitting time finally released The Phantom. He changed quickly, mounted his bike, and pedaled off, heading for the shack. He couldn't wait to get home. His excitement was threatening to overwhelm him, and his testicles ached. To make matters worse every time his legs pedaled the fabric of his boxers rubbed along the length of his rampant organ. At the same time his shorts rode up, and his flaming mushroom peeked out, which was, in a way, a blessing. Had the fabric been rubbing this part of him he would have exploded from the stimulation.

Braking to a stop in front of the shack, The Phantom threw the bike on the ground, and slammed into the decrepit building, pushing down his shorts and boxers. He threw himself on the mouldy bed and immediately began masturbating, his touch sending shock waves through his body.

With one hand he lubricated his flaming crown with the precum that was oozing from his slit and with the other hand The Phantom pumped furiously, holding his erection so that it was pointing straight up. He was so totally absorbed in his frantic masturbation that he only dimly realized that he was moaning and groaning as his hips bucked upward. His hand became a blur and suddenly the magnificent sensation filled his body as a pulse of glory surged through him. He thrust his hips violently upward as a lava jet of semen screamed through his cock and erupted, a thick stream geysering upward, arcing, and spattering across the blanket. His body convulsed and his eyes rolled back in his head as he screamed loudly as another, then another load blew forth. He pulled his pulsing dick closer to his body and small gobbets of his juice spewed out, landing on his stomach and clotting his curly pubes.

Finally, unable to stand the all-encompassing pleasure, his hand motion slowed, and The Phantom slid his semen soaked hand over and around his screaming dickhead, drawing every drop of his seed out of his body. The Phantom let his hand slip from his engorged organ. He lay there, exhausted, panting, his body rimed with sweat, his shrinking penis rising and falling as he breathed.

When his senses returned The Phantom finger-cleaned the sticky effluent from his body, sucking and licking his seed. He sat up and the bedsprings groaned and creaked in protest. "Jesus," he thought, remembering his cum cries, "I must have made one hell of a racket." He lay back down and toyed with his now low-hanging balls. "I bet I scared away every critter in miles."

The Phantom lay quietly listening to the silence that surrounded him. In the distance he thought he heard the sound of thunder. "Or," he thought pragmatically, "It's my stomach rumbling." He had forgotten to eat, being too busy daydreaming, first about Ray then, after being measured for his jacket and pants, about The Gunner. With great reluctance he got off the bed and searched for his underpants and shorts. As he had expected his USMC boxers were soaked with precum, so much so that he did not put them on. He slipped on his shorts and left the shack. After stuffing the soiled boxers in the saddlebag of his bike he mounted and rode off, heading for home, noticing that the wind had freshened, and felt warm against his face.

The Twins reported to the Regulating Office at 1730. They fully expected that whatever extra duty they were assigned would be onerous and dirty, so they had changed into work gear, long sleeved denim shirts and jeans. After being given the once over by Two Strokes, who was the Duty Regulator, they signed the Defaulters Book and were handed over to the Cadet Chief Boatswains Mate, Chief Petty Officer Stuart MacDuff, called The Buffer.

The Buffer was a tall, thin cadet who was unique in that he was the only cadet wearing a moustache, which grew in a thick, dark blond bush over his upper lip. He was the perennial happy young man, who saw humour in almost every situation. He grinned at the Twins and motioned for them to follow him. Stuart led the Twins to Boatswain Stores. "Here you go, boys." he gestured broadly. "It's all yours."

Todd and Cory groaned in unison. The place looked like Attila and his Huns had been bivouacked in it. There was dust and dirt everywhere, with piles of tangled ropes, blocks and tackles, scattered all over. Unidentified bits and pieces of what look like junk littered every corner. "Ah, come on, Stuart," moaned Todd, "you can't be serious."

"I ain't," replied the Buffer, "but Number One is." He picked up a coil of rope and tossed at Todd. "Look, don't bust your ass. This place has been a pigpen since 1945. It's going to be a pigpen in 2045. Just make a dent in it and keep everybody happy." After showing them where to dump the gash, Stuart left the Twins to their own devices and went off to the Canteen.

The Twins were not lazy. They began working diligently and before very long they had at least the blocks squared away. They were covered in dust and grime and Cory observed that it was a good thing this place was a pigpen because not only were they sweating like pigs they were beginning to smell like ones. Before Todd could reply the door opened and Chris entered.

Chris was shorter than the Twins, and not as muscular. Where they were blond and fair, he had dark brown, almost black hair, which like the Twins he kept closely cut. He had a ruddy, healthy complexion, which, thanks to his time in the sun, was tanning nicely. Chris was a thoroughly pleasant young man who also happened to be hopelessly infatuated with the Twins. "Hi, guys." he said shyly. "Need some help?"

Cory and Todd were a little surprised. Usually defaulters were left strictly alone, lest what they had done was contagious. "We're okay, Chris," said Todd. "Thanks anyway."

Chris shrugged and began to clear away a pile of gear from the worktable. He stared around the room. "Looks to me like you could use some help. You're never going to get this place clean."

"Probably not," agreed Cory. "But we're the ones under punishment, not you. Besides, you aren't dressed for this kind of work." He pointed at Chris's white bells and gunshirt.

Chris waved away Cory's objection. "I have to do a dhobey tonight anyway. I have nothing to do until after Evening Quarters, so I thought I would give you guys a hand."

Since Chris would not take no for an answer the Twins gave up and allowed him to help. The young boatswain worked diligently, helping to lift bales of rope, hanging hooks on the bulkhead, and generally making himself as useful to his young blond gods as he could. Before very long he was just as dirty and sweaty as Todd and Cory. After an hour or so of hard work they took a short break, sitting on the grass outside the building, their backs against the warm wood.

Chris leaned forward and pulled off his gunshirt, revealing the waistband and a small, damp strip of his briefs above his bells. He turned his gunshirt inside out and wiped the sweat and grime from his face. "Jeez, is it me, or is it hotter somehow."

"We did work up a sweat," Cory replied as he took the gunshirt from Chris and began to wipe his back. "Jesus, Chris, you sure sweat up a storm."

Chris's body shivered at Cory's touch and he felt a slight tremor as his penis hardened slightly. All he had wanted to do was to help his friends. Cory's touching him was almost too much for him. When Cory was finished wiping Chris's back he draped the damp gunshirt over his shoulder. Chris turned and smiled his thanks.

They sat quietly for a bit, then Chris stood up and drew on his gunshirt. "I'm as dry as a popcorn fart," he declared. "I'll buy the Cokes." Todd offered to pay but Chris refused. "Hey, money I got. There's not much to spend it on around this dump." With that he was off, heading for the Breezeway Flats and the Coke machine.

Cory watched as Chris disappeared around the corner of the Headquarters Building. "He's in love with us, you know," he said quietly. Todd nodded.

"Are we going to do anything about it?"

Todd nodded again. "When the time is right."

"Which will be?" Cory slipped his hand in Todd's.

"It will be when the time is right. For him, and for us." Todd squeezed Cory's hand. "Do you remember the first time we really made love?" he asked Cory. "Not the first time we fooled around, but the first time we actually made love?"

Cory thought a moment. "Yes, I remember. It was wonderful."

Todd smiled. "That's the way it should be for Chris. Wonderful."

"How will we know? How will he know?"

"He'll know when it's time. We'll know when it's time." Todd shrugged. "It will just be the right time."

Cory remained silent. "Todd," he thought, "You old softy. You might have balls bigger than mine, but deep down inside, you're just a softy." He glanced at his brother and smiled.

They watched as Chris turned the corner of the Headquarters Building, Cokes in hand, and headed towards them. Reluctantly Todd withdrew his hand. "We better cool it, Cory. If anyone sees us we'll be for it. And considering the mood Number One was in he'd have us duck walked all the way to Comox, with the Band in front playing the Rogue's March and Little Big Man in the rear poking us in the ass with a bayonet."

"The little cocksucker would enjoy that," growled Cory.

The boys worked until 2000 when Two Strokes, who was just coming off Watch, wandered by and told them that they could knock off for the day. Followed by Chris, the Twins returned to the Regulating Office and logged out. As they crossed the parade square they could hear thunder in the distance. The wind had picked up, blowing and gusting, and sending broken twigs, leaves, and bits of dropped paper skittering across the dusty parade square. The close-hauled flags flying from the flag mast snapped and cracked in the wind. As they neared the Staff Barracks Stuart and Fred rushed up.

"There's a big storm coming," said Stuart, a worried look on his face. "We have go tie up the YAGs. I need you, Chris" He looked at the Twins. "You two as well, if you could."

"Is it that bad?" asked Chris.

Fred nodded rapidly. "Gale force winds, or so the Executive Officer said."

Todd and Cory immediately agreed to help and they all hurried down to the Boat Yard where they joined the officers and crews of the YAGs in securing the boats so that they could ride out the gale with a minimum of damage. The single lines that held each wooden-hulled boat to the jetty had to be doubled up, and storm hawsers rigged. It was hard, dangerous work. The wind was coming from the west, which set the usually calm waters of the harbour to roiling, the waves rising to five or more feet, which set the boats to pitching and yawing. While the cadets worked the lines and checked the scuttles, the five officers worked to fit the storm shutters to the bridge windows of each boat.

The storm hit with a vengeance and successive line squalls rolled across Heron Spit. Thunder crashed overhead and lightning flashed constantly. Above the storm they could hear the surf crashing against the long wooden jetty to which the YAGs were moored. As the surge inverted the thermal patterns in the harbour, which only minutes before had been delightful for swimming, the water became a frigid enemy. Each wave slammed against the pilings with such force that the sturdy wooden structure shook. Walls of water roared down and across the jetty, soaking everyone with bone-numbing, cold, saltwater and by the time the Squadron Commander secured them everybody in the work party was soaked to the skin and suffering hypothermia.

Once secured, the officers sprinted for the wardroom, Stuart and Fred loped off to the Boatswains barracks, and the Twins and Chris headed for Gunroom. They passed Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, two disgruntled Signalmen, and a very put out Young Brown, the Bugler, all of them inadequately covered by rubber ponchos. Standing beside the flagstaff, barely seen in the now driving rain, the Officer of the Day waited for them. Official Sunset was fast approaching and even though a gale was raging the flags had to come down on time. Chris and the Twins hurried to the Gunroom. They had no desire to come to a screeching halt when the bugler sounded the Still and stand at attention in the pouring rain while the flags came down.

Thoroughly soaked in their dash through the driving rain the three boys hurried into the Gunroom. Their uniforms were soaked through and plastered to their skin, so much so that Chris's white bell-bottoms were almost transparent, his white briefs clearly outlined, his patch of dark pubic hair above his smallish dick clearly visible. His gunshirt was so sodden that his light brown nipples and pale pink aureoles showed clearly. All three boys were shivering from their drenching, their teeth chattering.

Harry took one look at them and went into action. Protesting mildly, The Twins and Chris were stripped by Harry, Thumper, Two Strokes and Jon. They were then pushed under hot showers, then draped in thick sea blankets, which Alfie had dug out their storage place, and put to bed, with strict orders from Harry to stay there. Alfie flashed up the duty kettle and when the water had boiled, made three huge cups of strong tea. Thumper rummaged in his kit bag and pulled out a forbidden jug of dark rum. He poured a long shot in each mug.

"Drink this," ordered Harry. "It will get the cold out and help with your shrinkage problem."

Chris lifted his blanket, as did the Twins. In place of his normal three inches all he saw was his helmet, purple and wrinkled, poking out of his abundant pubic hair. The Twins found that they had suffered the same fate. "Jesus," exclaimed Chris, "it's gone!"

Harry laughed uproariously. "Don't worry, it will be back to normal by the morning."

"But I might need it tonight!" squalled Cory.

"No you won't!" ordered Todd.

"You leave your tally whacker alone," admonished Harry with a leer as he wagged his finger at Cory.

Cory was about to comment on certain people and the Thumper Special when the door crashed open and Fred clumped in. He slammed the door shut and stood dripping water all over the clean deck. He was wearing a poncho but was just as soaked as the other three had been. He was about to say something when he sneezed, a huge, ball rattling blast. He was immediately set upon, stripped naked, shoved into a shower, the water so hot he was afraid of being parboiled, shoved into his bed and given a medicinal mug of tea and rum.

Tyler and Val followed Fred into the Gunroom and while they weren't treated as roughly as the Twins, Chris and Fred, they took the hint and showered. Draped in thick blankets they sat with the other cadets at the mess table. Harry poured the last of the rum for them. Thumper sighed and took the empty bottle, stuffing it at the bottom of his kit bag. He would dispose of it in the morning.

Harry boiled another kettle of water and made more tea. He sat down beside Tyler and looked around. Two Strokes rolled off his bunk and rummaged in his kit bag. He pulled out a bottle of brandy and placed it in front of Harry, who opened it, and poured a round for everybody.

"My brother thinks he's all ready for a party tomorrow night," said Two Strokes as he handed the bottle to Tyler. "Looks like he thought wrong!" He grinned and held out his cup.

"What have you guys got in here, a fucking liquor store?" asked Val. He tasted his tea, smiled, and took a healthy slug.

"As if you don't have a bottle of your Pop's homemade grappa hidden under your clean shorts in your locker," replied Harry with a knowing smirk.

A blast of wind shook the barracks, setting the closed windows to rattling.

"It's a pisser out there," said Tyler, his hands around the hot, aromatic mug. "No Rounds tonight. Number One says everybody is to stay inside."

The storm worsened and since the barracks was unheated, every cadet was soon draped in a warm woollen blanket, talking quietly, passing the bottle until it was empty. Tyler went into the Chief's Mess and returned with a bottle of rye.

Liquor was officially banned at AURORA. Except for the Wardroom, the ship was supposed to be as dry as toast. That almost every senior cadet had a hidden bottle was a well-known secret. The liquor tended to be sippin' licker. Tyler, Val, and Harry, who was the Senior Cadet in the Gunroom, saw no harm in their peers having a drink so long as no one got drunk. It was, after all, a part of their rite of passage.

The boys talked quietly, swinging the lamp, enjoying the unique bonding and camaraderie that only happens in an all male, military environment, generating the warmth of friendship that no outsider can ever penetrate. It was an experience that, with the possible exception of Tyler, the cadets knew would never happen to them again in their lives. Every cadet in the room was 18, or as close as damn it to it. Tyler was going directly to Royal Roads Military College from AURORA. Val, when he returned home, would turn in his kit. Both boys were leaving the Sea Cadets, Tyler to the Canadian Armed Forces, Val to his father's business. The other boys would be allowed to finish out their Corps' training cycle. In any case, unless they took a commission, they would not be back. This was their final year.

The talk, as it almost always did, turned to sex. As it turned out, except for Two Strokes, they were all virgins. Harry argued that a dry hump while dancing close with a girl, should count. The others disagreed; a dry hump was a dry hump and didn't count, even if you did cream your shorts. "Fuck me!" growled Harry as he shook his head. "And they were a pair of brand new silk boxers, too." As the only man of experience available, Two Strokes was questioned closely about his one and only time. He took a sip of his brother's brandy, and thought a moment. He liked being one of the boys. He liked the feeling of warmth he had, warmth that did not come from the liquor. "It was all right, I guess," he said presently.

A chorus of "You guess?" assailed him.

"Well, yes. I do guess it was all right," returned Two Strokes firmly. "I mean . . ." He struggled. "I mean, I put it in, and that was nice, but I have to be honest, my hand would have felt better. Then she grabbed my ass and pushed me further in and well . . . I pumped a couple of times, and I came."

"That's it?" asked Alfie incredulously.

"That's it," confirmed Two Strokes. "I wasn't at all sure I'd cum until I saw my knob all covered in spunk. Actually, I've had better dumps." He poured another drink.

Tyler, who had been in the process of having a drink, choked and was pummelled on the back by Val, who was shaking with laughter. The other cadets roared and pounded the table. Two Strokes beamed. He was now officially one of them, a Brother of the Sea.

Cory got up, his blanket around him like an itinerant Sioux brave, and wandered off to the heads. When he returned to the Gunroom he sat down beside Harry, who asked him if everything was all right. "No," replied Cory glumly. "I could hardly find it."

"Don't worry, the little feller will be all better in the morning." Harry laughed uproariously.

"You should talk," sniffed Cory. "Can I have another drop?" he asked as he held out his cup.

Val poured the last of the rye in Cory's cup and Tyler topped it up with tea. "That's the last of it. And the last for tonight," said Tyler. "It's getting close to Lights Out anyway." The other cadets nodded. The unwritten rule was you could get a buzz on, but nothing more.

The Twins and Chris shrugged their indifference at Tyler closing the bar. They did not need the booze They were quite content to just sit, chat and enjoy one another's company, so comfortable that they hardly realized they were naked under their blankets and that every time they moved a part of them was exposed. "You, know, Roger, you really should have had her give you a blowjob," said Jon suddenly.

Todd hid his head under his blanket. The last thing he needed was a discussion of blowjobs. Not when he and Cory . . . Cory, just as anxious, spoke up. "Well, I've never had one," he lied blatantly, "but I hear it's pretty good if it's done right."

Under the blankets Todd's jaw dropped. "Jesus, Cory!" he thought, "don't open the door."

Todd need not have worried. Every cadet in the room, at one time or another had had thoughts and feelings for other boys. None of them had acted on those feelings to any great extent. Some of them had fooled around. All of them still played grab ass and, just as now, thought nothing of walking around nude, not too mention parading their morning woodies. Acting and talking gay was something they all did without thinking. None of them would have admitted what they felt, or that they had beat off with another guy. They knew instinctively that such things were never to be spoken of and never to be admitted. As for the Twins, they fucked around and made suggestive noises, playing the gay game the all played - even Two Strokes, the Gunroom's resident bigot. What mattered, however, was that the Twins were messmates and members of Nelson's Band of Brothers. That they might be gay - which none of the cadets knew for sure - was not considered. The Twins were friends and brothers and that was all that mattered.

Two Strokes scratched his head, then his balls. "You know, she was so busy trying to get my pants down, and I was so busy trying to get my pants down, I never even thought of that," he said. "I figured, hey, I'm gonna get laid. That's all I was thinking about." He sighed heavily.

"Well, maybe the next time." consoled Alfie.

"Not with that cow. I'd have to tie a 2x4 to my ass just to keep from falling in."

They were laughing so hard at Two Strokes' latest sally that they hardly heard the bugler sound Last Post. Tyler and Val stood up and, after bidding everyone good night, went into their quarters. Reluctantly, the other cadets followed suit. Cory walked to the switches and turned out the lights, then went to his bed. Before getting in he leaned down and kissed Todd good night.

In the Petty Officers Mess, Little Big Man lay on his bunk, which butted against the bulkhead separating the two berthing areas, listening to the sounds of laughter that filtered through the paper-thin wall from the Gunroom. He heard Harry's bellowed laughter and the voices of the senior cadets, and grimaced. It sounded as if they were having a party in there. His head jerked up when he heard one of the Twins - Cory, he thought - howling about something. His face became suffused with anger and the embers of hatred flared.

He hated the Twins. He hated the vile creatures that were abominations in the sight of God and man, loathsome things that lay with men and did obscene things to each other and to the other cadets. He hated the Twins because God, and his father, and his minister told him that he must hate them. That they returned his hatred ten-fold Little Big Man did not doubt. He had felt their wrath, and suffered for his beliefs, for his righteousness. He had fought the good fight and lost against the vile sons of Satan. Little Big Man was not surprised that he had lost for the power ranged against him was strong. His father had told him that there would be many battles before the righteous; right-thinking white men triumphed against the forces of evil ranged against them. Some battles they would win, many others they would lose. They would suffer horrible losses but in the end they would triumph. Little Big Man had no doubt that he, a right-thinking, upright, Christian, white man would triumph.

Little Big Man heard another burst of laughter from the other side of the bulkhead and almost spat his contempt for the Twins and their friends. "Fucking fags," he muttered angrily. They were all fags, influenced by the Twins, serviced by the Twins and he hated them almost as much as he hated the Twins. He rolled on his side and unconsciously slipped his hand down the front of his tighty-whiteys. The Twins, the fiendish, sneaky Twins had suborned the senior cadets and used their influence against him.

As he idly fondled himself Little Big Man ground his teeth with impotent rage. Last summer, not only had the Twins engineered his demotion from Lead Drummer of the Band, thus eliminating any chances he had to become Drum Major of the Bugle Band, they had humiliated him, made him a laughing stock and had almost cost him the friendship of Rob, David and Ryan. He had spent half the summer crashing cymbals and avoiding the other cadets who gloried in mocking him, making a fool of him!

Little Big Man had been spared further humiliation when he returned home thanks to the silence of his friends and his father's position as Deputy Sea Cadet Chairman of the Navy League Branch, a position that had also brought the cadet back to AURORA, rehabilitated and promoted to Petty Officer.

Running the palm of his hand across the sloping top of his erect penis, Little Big Man shivered with delight. He moaned softly and then a fleeting look of fright crossed his face. He pulled his hand from his underpants and sat up abruptly for all he needed was his messmates catching him playing with himself. He looked around the dimly lit Mess and then lay back down, smiling. The other cadets Little Big Man shared the barracks with were off playing sailor, helping to secure the buildings and the YAGs. The dumb fucks! He had managed to be one step ahead of Tyler and Val and while the others - Mal, Jack, Willy and the two Physical Training Instructors, Mike Sunderland and Phillip Adean - were off getting blown half way to Hell, and drenched in the teeming rain, he was warm and comfortable in his own bed.

Sure that he would not be disturbed, Little Big Man returned his hand to his undies and settled back, returning to thinking hateful thoughts about the Twins and their friends. He kept a mental list of the cadets who went out of their way to support the Twins. They would all pay when the day came. God, would they pay. The Twins might have their ways, but so did he and after the events of yesterday he would do anything he could to have his revenge, to see the Twins, and their newest friend, who was not even a cadet but a civilian, brought down.

Little Big Man's face darkened with anger and renewed humiliation. He had had a run-in last year with The Phantom, a knock down, drag out fight. But last year the Twins had not been involved and nothing more had happened. This year it was obvious to Little Big Man that the Twins gotten to the guy. They had gotten to a lot of guys! It was as plain as the nose on his face that the Twins were conspiring to destroy him, to ruin his career. He could stand the humiliation, he could stand the Twins trying to deliberately kill him he was convinced that they had aimed and fired the cannons at him with malice aforethought. What he could not stand was that they conspired to take away his career.

He was so disgusted that the pleasure that had been coursing through his body drained away. With a snort of anger he sat up and pounded his mattress. They had done it to him again, taking an entirely innocent remark directed at them and using their evil influence persuaded their friends to have him suspended as Lead Drummer of the Band and seconded to the Training Division to train the Sea Puppies, who loathed him as much as he loathed them, the little bastards! He swung his legs over the edge of his bunk and then stood up. He stripped off his briefs and grabbed a towel. He needed to calm down because he needed to think about how he could retaliate against his enemies. He walked into the washplace cursing his fate and as he stepped under showerhead he was full of righteous indignation, convinced in his own mind that he was the injured party, the victim of a conspiracy, never conceding that it had been his own tongue that had caused him to suffer Harry's wrath.

Two days before, at Thursday lunch, Little Big Man had been in the lineup, waiting for his food. He was, as he almost always was, with Rob, Ryan and David, his friends and, he hoped, soul mates. Ahead of him in the line were the Twins who were laughing at something or other with the civilian kid who worked the galley, the same kid he had fought last summer. "So," Little Big Man thought to himself, "the fags are working on another convert." Well, they would not have far to go because everybody knew that the kid they called The Phantom was halfway to being a queer anyway. Little Big Man turned to his coterie and muttered that fags of a feather flocked together, saying it just loud enough for the Twins to overhear and following up his words with an evil cackle.

The Twins, who had heard worse, ignored the little prick. They had no desire to start a riot in the middle of lunch. No point would be served and nothing would be gained. Little Big Man was a bigot and a racist and a homophobe. He would never change so they absorbed his barbs and went to find a table.

The Phantom had heard Little Big Man's remark and unlike the Twins, he was not prepared to ignore the biting words. He was not a cadet, and had little standing, but he was not about to allow Little Big Man to insult innocent people whenever he felt like it. The Phantom wanted to lash out at the skinny little git but he was a civilian and he was intelligent enough to know that a mere civilian interfering in a cadet matter would not go over well. Then he saw who was standing behind Little Big Man. The Phantom gave Little Big Man a withering look and then gave Harry as searing look that demanded to know what, if anything, Harry was going to do about Little Big Man.

Harry hoped to live to be a ripe old age, but only if he was never again the recipient of that green-eyed, fiery look that would remind him to his dying day that a junior cadet did not make disparaging, disrespectful remarks about senior cadets, especially in the hearing of a civilian and a senior Chief. He felt The Phantom's green eyes boring into his very soul and squared his shoulders. He promptly boxed Little Big Man's ears, turfed him from the Band for a week, and assigned him to teaching the Sea Puppies, none of whom could play so much as a kazoo, Band Drill.

As the storm raged unabated the cadets battened down everything that could be battened and then hurried to their barracks for a hot shower and dry clothes. Little Big Man was towelling himself dry when the door leading from the outside banged open and Mike and Phillip, shivering and covered in goose bumps, hurried into the showers. They ignored Little Big Man, as they always did, and quickly turned on the water. Steam began to fill the small room when Mal, Willy and Jack, equally chilled, came in. After giving the shrunken parts if his messmates disparaging glance, Little Big Man returned to the berthing area. He put on clean underwear and then felt under the pile of dirty laundry that lined the bottom of his locker and pulled out imitation leather, zippered, notecase.

Little Big Man sat at the mess table and opened the notecase. On top of the small tablet of lined paper was a small brochure, ill-printed in heavy black ink. Little Big Man lifted the booklet carefully, treating the slim volume as if it was holy script. The small booklet, a short history of the youth wing of the Liebstandarte, had been his inspiration and hope. The Leader had promised that on Der Tag, on the day that the Jewish Conspiracy was finally defeated he, Paul Greene, would once again raise the Standard. He would wear the black and silver uniform, he would have the runic SS symbol tattooed under his left arm, he would assume his rightful place in the Legion. He would be an offizier, a leader, a man of respect and importance. It had been promised to him.

Carefully putting aside the booklet and his dream of imagined glory, Little Big Man took up his pencil. He began to write a letter to his father, the ill-spelt, tightly scrawled words filling the pages. As he wrote he smiled spitefully. The Twins had their ways, and so did he.

The storm raged for the better part of the night. Toward dawn it slackened and settled into a steady drizzle. The cadets awoke to a cold, damp barracks. None of them wanted to leave their warm beds, and they sure as hell didn't feel like getting up and performing pushups in the rain. Saturday, until 1200, was just another working day, and they were all expected on the parade square for P & RT at 0610. A mutiny was avoided when the Roundsman stuck his head in the door and announced that PT, and Divisions, were cancelled.

They lazed in bed, delaying until the last possible moment getting up. They eventually all crawled out, had their morning dumps and piss, and pulled on whatever rig they needed for the day. Most of the cadets donned work dress. The Crushers and Chris put on blue bell-bottomed trousers and gunshirts. Two Strokes and Thumper had the Morning Watch. Chris was teaching a class. The Twins would be busy in the Drill Shed, putting the Sea Puppies through their paces, teaching them Queen Anne's Drill. Wearing a variety of ponchos, slickers, yellow rain gear and Burberrys, they all went to breakfast, where they heard the latest on the damage caused by the storm.

One of the YAGs had been damaged. The storm had torn loose the engine room hatch and flooded the space. The boat would have to be towed down to Esquimalt for repairs. Ashore, a tree branch had smashed through one of the tall windows of the Mess Hall and, all in all, there had been only minor damage to the other buildings, a leaking roof here, a broken window there. The parade square and the grounds were littered with broken tree branches, uprooted flowers, and several dead seagulls, the usual aftermath of a storm.

After breakfast everybody went about his business. At 1115 the Afternoon Watchmen secured and went off for their lunch. At 1145, the YAGs sailed under the command of the Executive Officer, who had to go to Esquimalt anyway. The Twins watched them go and then went to lunch. After lunch they went to the Regulating Office, signed the log, and then went back to Boatswains Stores. Not very long after they started cleaning Chris, changed into work dress, came in, and began to help them.

They worked until 1500, bending, stooping, carrying, reaching, sweeping, and by the time they left all three were sweat stained and covered with what seemed to be the dust of ages. They returned to an eerily quiet barracks.

Saturday afternoon was a half-holiday. Those who needed to gathered in the Cadet Laundry, bags of dirty clothing in hand, waiting their turn at the machines. Others, under the supervision of the Vicar, had gone into town to shop. The jocks gathered in the Drill Shed to play a pickup game of basketball. The canteen was open and others gathered there to play shuffleboard, and drink Cokes.

As they stripped off Chris complained that he had aches in muscles he never knew he had. "And look at me," he said indicating his body. "I look like the rag picker's child."

"So do we," replied Todd.

All three boys were covered in sweat-streaked dust. Chris's white briefs were soiled with sweat stained dirt and grime. He pulled them off, grimaced, and rubbed his chafed groin. "Jesus, I have got to get some boxers," he moaned. "Look at that," he said indicating the red skin between his legs, which had been rubbed raw by the leg bands of his briefs.

Todd clucked sympathetically. "That's why we don't wear briefs very often. But don't worry, a little talcum powder will take care of that."

"You can borrow a couple of pairs of my boxers," offered Cory. Then he added hastily, "They're clean, honest. I didn't cum in them or anything like that."

"Jesus, Cory!" exploded Todd. "The things you say."

Chris giggled and nodded. "Thanks, Cory, I appreciate it. I promise not to cum in them or anything like that." He picked up his towel and headed for the showers. Cory flipped Todd the bird, stuck out his tongue and followed Chris into the showers.

They turned the water on full blast, each boy standing under a separate head, slowly washing the dirt from their bodies, and massaging the pain from their aching muscles. From time to time Chris made sideways glances at the Twins, Todd on his right, Cory on his left. He saw that, as Harry had promised, their dicks had returned to normal. They were all the same, circumcised, about 3-inches long, smooth, with no veins marring the sleek, pinkish brown shafts and with neatly defined helmets, although the Twins' dicks were just slightly lighter in colour than his own. He noticed that both Cory and Todd had beautifully formed, low hanging balls, although Cory's were slightly smaller than Todd's.

Chris could feel his balls tightening and his cock hardening. As much as he wanted to be with the Twins, he didn't want them to think he was some sort of a weirdo who got a hardon in the showers. He turned his back to the Twins and began vigorously scrubbing, trying to take his mind off being naked in the same room with his idols. He reached around and tried to scrub his back, not quite making it.

The Twins had seen the glances, and could see Chris's slowly rising dick. Cory looked at Todd, who nodded. Cory moved behind Chris, and Todd moved closer to his side.

"Here, let me do that," murmured Cory softly. He began to slowly massage Chris's back. Todd placed one hand at the base of Chris's spine, just above the curve of his butt, and began moving his soapy washcloth across Chris's stomach, carefully avoiding Chris's rampant boner, six firm inches jutting upward at an angle from his body.

Chris responded to their massaging fingers, a low moan escaping his lips. He closed his eyes and laid his head on Todd's chest; feeling for the first time the firm, warm flesh of one of the two boys he loved. His heart was pounding. He turned his head and tenderly kissed Todd's chest. He never wanted to leave Todd's strong, muscular arms, never wanted not to feel Cory's warm fingers caressing him. "Chris, is this something you want to do?" asked Todd quietly. "We can stop it now. It's no big deal."

The Twins, whenever they were with another boy, made a point of offering to stop before things got too out of hand. They felt no guilt about what they were doing, but they wanted to be damn sure that the other boy was just as eager as they were.

Chris cupped Todd's balls and then stroked his semi-hard penis and as Todd's penis stiffened in his hand he raised his head and kissed him, a kiss of love and tenderness. Chris gazed into Todd's azure, gold lashed eyes. "I have wanted this since I first saw you and Cory. I wanted this last summer. I wanted this last winter. I want it now. I love you both, " he moaned. He was breathing heavily, overcome with the moment.

Todd did not reply. As the water washed away the soapy residue of their shower he returned Chris's kiss and dropped the washcloth. He began to stroke Chris, and fondle his now tightened balls. Cory moved to the other side of Chris and began to lick and nip his nipples to erection, massaging his waist, then his firm, hair-dusted ass cheeks.

A whirlwind of emotion roared through Chris as the Twins positioned themselves as close as they could to him, trapping his pulsing cock between their hips. He could feel the heat of their hardons against his skin. As they continued to stroke and fondle Chris felt his dick convulse and his body began to tremble as the river of pleasure spread across the flood plain of his soul. His cock jerked and a massive jet of cum flew from it. His balls pulsed and another, then another string of cum arced from his engorged helmet. Chris bit his lip to stifle his cum cry, all the while wanting to scream the ecstasy that overwhelmed him. He had peaked, his body was drained, and his knees buckled.

The Twins helped Chris to the bench against the wall of the showers, and sat on either side of him. He slumped, his face in his hands, totally overcome. When he lifted his head the Twins saw that he was crying. They drew away, not quite afraid, but worried that perhaps they had picked the wrong time, the wrong boy. Chris, seeing their look, put his arms around their shoulders and pulled them close. Breathing deeply, his head back, tears flowing, he reassured them. "All my life . . ." he sobbed, "ever since I was little . . . All my life, they told me . . .my father, my brothers, everybody, that it was bad, it was dirty." He nuzzled Todd's neck, then Cory's. "But it isn't. It's wonderful and natural," he murmured as he closed his eyes as the Twins embraced him. "It's wonderful," he whispered.

The Phantom awoke that morning out of sorts and with a headache. He had come home the night before thoroughly exhausted and soaked to the bone from the rain that had started just as he reached the turnoff to his street. At his mother's orders he had taken a long, hot bath. As he soaked his father had come into the bathroom and given him a tall hot whiskey and water. He had been so intrigued at his first real drink that he forgot to be embarrassed. He had crawled into bed naked, and pulled the warm covers over his head and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He lay back, listening to the rain that still teemed down, then reached down and touched his flaccid penis, and grimaced. He had thumped himself raw yesterday. Getting out of bed The Phantom went into the bathroom where he rummaged in the medicine cabinet for something to put on his dick. Finding nothing there, he went into Brendan's room. In the bed table he found a half-used tube of Vaseline. He gently smeared his dick with the lubricant, idly wondering what Brendan was doing with a tube of Vaseline in his drawer.

The Phantom returned to his room and sat on the bed, staring idly at the rain slicked street below. He hoped it would clear up before too long. Not only did he have to go to work, he also desperately wanted to go back to AURORA tonight. The cadets were allowed to stay up until midnight and, if he knew anything about it, they would sleep like the dead, nothing short of an earthquake awakening them. Tonight would be perfect, if it stopped raining.

He heard his father calling him. He dressed in an old pair of sweats and went downstairs. As The Phantom ate his breakfast his father detailed all the work that had to be done. The pool was full of storm debris and a branch of the tree out back, which had snapped off, had to be chopped up. They would use it after it had dried in the fireplace during the cooler winter months. After working for the better part of the morning The Phantom showered, changed, and begged a ride from his father, who also agreed to pick him up after work.

Chef immediately put him to work checking out a pile of fresh food and canned goods, rations for the boats' crews that were to be loaded on the two YAGs that were going down to Esquimalt as soon as the sea state abated. That done he helped load the rations on the truck sent from the Dock Yard.

The rain continued to pour down, depressing everybody. The cadets straggled in for lunch, most of them dressed in jeans and sweaters. Everybody was damp and cold and The Phantom kept busy filling the soup containers and brewing up a huge batch of Kye. The Gunner came into the galley just after lunch, carrying a huge bundle, which he dropped on Chef's desk, then gestured for The Phantom to come alongside. "Here you go, Phantom. I hope they fit." The Gunner indicated the package.

"Go and put them on," ordered Chef.

The Phantom went and changed, then stood as The Gunner and Chef walked a circle around him, nodding and stroking their chins.

"Well, I have to admit," began Chef. "He sure looks good."

Ray, Sandro, and the other cooks wandered over and had a look. They all nodded approvingly. The white steward's jacket, which had a high, black collar, wide black cuffs, and black buttons embossed with a small anchor, fit The Phantom perfectly, almost as if it had been made for him alone. The smooth serge trousers, a trifle wrinkled, set off his hard young body, flowing over his melon-like behind. "Jeez, Phantom." said Ray, "you look like a million bucks."

"For that you get something special tonight," thought The Phantom. He had a silly grin on his face and was blushing. He hung his head and glanced at The Gunner, wanting to see his reaction.

The Gunner stood and stared at The Phantom. He was struck by the sheer masculinity of the youth. The boy was not beautiful, and never would be, although he was damned good looking. The Gunner realized that at the right time, and in the right circumstances, he would have crumbled and succumbed to the sudden feelings rising in him. Which he could not, and would not, allow to happen. He handed The Phantom a shoebox. "New shoes go with the outfit," he said tightly, trying to maintain his composure. "Get one of the cadets to show you how to spit shine them."

"Oh, I know how to do that, Gunner. My Dad already showed me." The Phantom smiled shyly. He had seen the look on The Gunner's face when he inspected him. The Gunner was fighting the same demons he was.

"Well, enough of this fashion show," boomed Chef. "Phantom, you go change. Gunner, I need a beer."

The spell broken, The Gunner went to the fridge, The Phantom to change, and the cadets returned to work.

After lunch the rain tapered, and stopped. As the clouds cleared and the sun peeked through the temperature began to rise sharply, and the water-soaked Spit began to dry out. The Phantom worked through his shift and shortly after seven his father picked him up and they drove home, where he showed his parents his new finery.

After a long shower The Phantom dressed in his new clothes and preened for his parents. His mother, as mothers will, told him he looked very handsome, and very grown up. His father looked at him wistfully, remembering the long ago days when he had worn a jacket very much like the one his son now wore, when he did duty in the Officers' Mess of the Airborne Regiment.

They talked for several hours, mostly about what The Phantom wanted to do with himself. He would enter his last year of high school in September. Both his parents hoped he would go on to university. The Phantom listened carefully to what they had to say. He made no commitments. An idea was forming in the back of his mind but he said nothing to his parents. Around midnight he went upstairs, ostensibly to bed for the night, in reality for a short nap before he went over to AURORA.

When The Phantom woke from his nap he showered and dressed. As he left the house he saw that a heavy fog had settled over the town, the air rent by the town foghorn, answered in the distance by the horn at the end of Goose Spit. The fog had settled over the harbour and across AURORA. As he slowly made his way along the beach he could barely make out the boxy outlines of the buildings.

The Phantom slipped into the Cooks Barracks and went immediately to Ray's bunk. As before Ray was lying on his back, his arm shielding his eyes from the dim light in the corridor. Once again, as The Phantom began to lower the front of Ray's briefs, he raised his hips. As the briefs went lower Ray's cock stiffened and rose. The Phantom could not be sure but he could swear that Ray's breath stopped momentarily as his dick bounced out his briefs. Ray settled back, spreading his legs, offering himself to The Phantom's waiting mouth.

The Phantom leaned forward but instead of taking Ray's erection in his mouth he licked and washed his balls. Ray responded by spreading his legs further, his knees rising as he squirmed at the touch of the warm, moist tongue laving first one, then the other ball. The Phantom revelled in the unique muskiness of Ray's balls, the strange, special scent of him. He kissed each ball in turn. At each kiss Ray's five inches throbbed and twitched. Ray's hips went higher as The Phantom took one, then the other, and then both of his balls in his mouth. The Phantom sucked gently, rolling his tongue around the perfect orbs. Ray began squirming, his hard cock pulsing and slapping against The Phantom's masked forehead.

The Phantom could feel Ray's balls tightening and withdrawing upward. He left Ray's balls and with one hand gripped the thickened base of his cock, then began licking his way upward toward the reddened mushroom that crowned the end of the boy's smooth shaft. Using as much saliva as he could produce The Phantom sucked and tongued Ray's tender spot, then lowered his mouth, gently sucking the clear, sticky precum gushing out of Ray's gaping slit, then slowly sucking in the sex-heated crown. Ray gasped at the warmth of the Phantom's mouth, then bucked and groaned.

With his free hand The Phantom ran his fingers along Ray's almost nonexistent ball sac, then along the small strip of flesh between his balls and his love hole. He ran his fingers around and across Ray's small, puckered hole as he sucked slowly on Ray's raging, thick cock, staring intently at the boy's face, alert for any change. As he watched Ray's face contorted and twisted in agonized pleasure. He raised his hips slowly, without force, and his dick began spewing out the thick, salty sweet nectar that The Phantom craved. He sucked and swallowed as Ray pumped load after load into his eager mouth.

As his orgasm waned Ray continued to thrust in ever diminishing movements, his sperm lubricated cock sliding easily in and out of The Phantom's mouth. When he had no more to give he lowered his hips, squirming as The Phantom licked his wonderfully sensitive helmet clean. When he was finished The Phantom stood up, then leaned over and kissed Ray gently. He was not at all surprised when Ray's mouth opened slightly and his tongue slipped into his mouth. The Phantom allowed the kiss to linger for only a moment, then pulled away. He gave Ray's genitals a final squeeze and left the barracks.

The Phantom paused outside the Cooks Barracks, completely hidden by the fog. He listened carefully. At first all he heard was the bellowing of the foghorn at the far end of the Spit. Then he became aware of the rhythmic crunch of gravel under heavy boots. He ducked down, hiding in the shadows and watched as two cadets, their bodies encased in fog-rimed slickers, grumped their way toward the Guardhouse. The Night Roundsman and the Duty PO were returning to post. As the cadets disappeared into the fog The Phantom moved quietly towards Barracks 8.

As was his habit he stopped and listened carefully. Hearing nothing he entered and listened again. Nothing but the sounds of boys sleeping, a few quiet moans, someone breathing nasally. He walked the length of the mess, peering at the sleeping bodies in the double bunks. Other than Brian and Dylan, he really had no idea which boy he would visit. He found Brian and Dylan at the far end of the mess. Brian was sleeping in the lower bunk directly against the outside wall. Dylan was two beds over, also sleeping on the lower bunk. The bunks in between, and the uppers above Brian and Dylan were empty, their usual occupants away on watch. The mess was warm and muggy and both cadets were lying on top of the sheets, Brian clad in briefs, Dylan in loose, baggy, white boxers.

The Phantom knelt beside Dylan, who was sleeping on his side, his arms hugging his pillow. The Phantom saw a very a handsome boy, with longish blond hair. He was well muscled, with a good chest, and a flat, taut stomach. As slowly as he could The Phantom gently pulled down the front of Dylan's boxers. His circumcised penis was thick, about two inches of soft flesh lying against his thigh, and encompassed in dark reddish blond pubic hair, that grew in an almost square, bushy patch extending down in thick swirls to almost meet at the base of his penis, the hair extending thinly along his groin and inner thighs. Dylan's balls, which were of average size, were encased in a hairy, tight hanging sac. To the right of his quiet genitals was the red and blue Superman tattoo he was so proud of.

The Phantom lowered his head until it was barely an inch above Dylan's groin. He sniffed delicately, drinking in yet another boy scent. He licked the tip of Dylan's helmet and then gently drew it into his mouth. Dylan's cock hardened almost at once to not quite five inches of stiffness, the blood vessels in the lower part of it distending, contrasting darkly against the pale pink of his of his shaft. The upper third of Dylan's erection turned a dark rosy pink and his cock had a lovely, mellow taste but before The Phantom could savour more Dylan squirmed and drew up his knees. His hand brushed the top of The Phantom's ski mask-covered head. The Phantom moved quickly away and as Dylan fisted his hardon and rolled over onto his stomach. He breathed one barely audible word. "No."

The Phantom moved away with a feeling of regret. Not for himself, but for Dylan, who would never know the wonder he had refused. He moved quietly down to Brian's bunk and knelt beside it, studying the sleeping gunner. Brian was lying flat on his back, one hand resting on his stomach, the other flung out over the edge of the bunk.

The Phantom reached out and cupped Brian's balls through the thin fabric of his briefs, feeling the soft, dense eggs. He stroked Brian's penis to hardness, and began pulling down his briefs. As the restraining briefs were pulled downward Brian's penis popped out and rose straight up from his supine body. It was surrounded at its base by a dense, curving arc of auburn hair that spiralled upward in a thick treasure trail and completely encircled his tight balls, then continued on in a thick curly forest, disappearing between his legs. Brian's cock had thickened and the upper part of its shaft, above his circumcision line, was a deep pink. His curving helmet, with a crisp, well defined rim, was as round, as smooth, and almost as red as an Okanogan cherry.

When his briefs had been pulled down to mid-thigh, Brian crooked his right leg, making more room for what might come next. The Phantom leaned over and buried his nose in Brian's groin. He smelled the muskiness, leavened with a rawness that would always be Brian's. For a moment he debated removing his mask, wanting to feel the warmth of the hard flesh against his cheek. He rejected the thought, however. If Brian woke up and saw who was sucking him, disaster would follow. He licked and sucked Brian's tight, hairless balls, so tight that he could not take them both in his mouth at once. The warmth of The Phantom's mouth on his balls seemed to penetrate Brian's brain, and he squirmed gently and spread his legs wider.

The Phantom licked the underside of Brian's tight sac, and then ran his tongue along his hairy perineum. As he moved to take Brian's cherry-red knob in his mouth, The Phantom looked up. Brian was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, but his eyes were tightly closed. He had one fuck of a grin on his face.

"He knows," thought The Phantom, "He knows, but he doesn't care. He wants his cock sucked, and that's all he cares about." The Phantom was happy to oblige. He drew Brian into his mouth, taking all of his five inches easily, burying his nose in the thick auburn forest at the base of Brian's hard penis. He breathed again the unique odour that was Brian, an intoxicating aroma of musk intermingled with the faint aroma of soap. Brian's pulsing erection tasted as he smelled, sweet and pleasant. The Phantom was going to thoroughly enjoy sucking this cadet's cock.

The Phantom began to suction his way up Brian's shaft but before he could savour the precum that was gushing from Brian's piss slit, Brian's hands moved. He grabbed the back of The Phantom's head, pushing it down as he thrust violently upward, shoving his steel hard rod as far into Phantom's mouth as he could, grunting loudly, trying to fuck The Phantom's face. He began muttering. "Yeah . . . suck it . . . yeah . . . bitch . . . suck that big dick."

The Phantom's reaction to this treatment was as violent as Brian's thrusting. He squeezed Brian's taut balls as hard as he could. Brian croaked something. The thrusting stopped at once and The Phantom took his mouth away. Keeping his grip on Brian's balls The Phantom moved his body upward, placing his mouth close to Brian's ear. He saw that Brian's eyes were open wide, his mouth a perfect "O" of pain.

The Phantom was very angry, so angry that common sense, which told him to fuck off out of there at a great rate of knots, was burned away. "Close your eyes, now!" ordered The Phantom in a harsh, rasping whisper. His hand roughly covered Brian's open mouth.

Brian quickly closed his eyes.

"Listen to me, STUD," growled The Phantom derisively, the memory of Brian and the other cadet lying on the deck of Boatswain Stores still in his memory, "Don't say a word, and don't open your eyes! Listen! Understand?" He squeezed just a little tighter. Brian frantically nodded his head. He was fully awake now and fully aware of what was happening to him. He had awoken at the first warm touch on his balls. He was aware that the guy, whoever he was, was righteously pissed off. But he couldn't help himself. He loved getting blown. He tried to mumble that he understood.

"I . . . told . . . you . . . to . . . shut . . . up," snarled The Phantom tightly. He squeezed Brian's balls again. The Phantom could feel Brian's face contort under his hand. "I said shut up!" The Phantom snapped. "I am a guy. I am a guy who was sucking that miserable excuse you call a dick. I am not some street whore you pay to blow in some back alley! Do you understand?"

Brian nodded vigorously.

"Good. I want to suck your cock again. A guy wants to suck your cock, Brian. Do you want a guy to blow you, Brian?" The Phantom emphasized guy each time. Brian's mind was reeling with surprise, pain and confusion. Brian? He knows my name? How could he know my name? Who is this guy? Brian, as confused as he was, pushed his questions to the back of his mind. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to get blown. He wanted to get blown by a guy because only a guy could properly blow another guy. He nodded slowly.

"That's good. That is very good, Brian," hissed The Phantom. He loosened his grip slightly. "Now here are the rules, Brian." He spoke in a calm, low whisper tinged with danger. "Do not move until I tell you to move. Do not speak. If you move I will rip your balls off! Understand?"

Brian understood. He had no idea who this boy was but he was very sure that the guy would do exactly what he said he would do. He nodded again.

"If you obey the rules I will suck your dick like it has never been sucked before," promised The Phantom. "You think the guy who blew you last year in Boatswain's Stores was good? I'm better."

Brian's mind was racing again. Who was this guy? How could he know about Boatswains Stores? He couldn't possibly know. Only Ben and he knew . . .

"You think the hose bag who gave you a blowjob as a good-bye present before you came here was good? I am going to take your dick and balls to places she never heard of." The Phantom released Brian's balls. "There will be no face fucking. There will be no name calling. Do you want me to suck you, Brian? Do you want me to take you across the river?"

Brian did not answer. He placed his hand on The Phantom's and moved it down to his aching balls. Then he took his hand away. He heard as soft rustling, and then felt the warm moistness engulf his dick. He realized that he had remained rock hard throughout the one-sided conversation. He felt his balls being massaged, his dick being . . . SUCKED . . . A feeling beyond pleasure transporting him as The Phantom began to take him across the river.

Sunday was a day of rest for the cadets. They did not have to get up if they did not feel like it. If they didn't feel like breakfast, that was fine. There was a midmorning brunch. If they felt like lounging around in their underwear, they could. It was Sunday Routine and, within reason, they could do as they liked. For those who were religious the Vicar held sway in the Wardroom. A Roman Catholic priest from Comox said Mass in the Drill Shed.

The Twins lolled in bed until gone noon. They had absolutely no qualms about missing the Vicar's service. At home every Sunday they were hauled, dressed in their best Savile Row suits, down to Christ Church Cathedral where their family had a pew. On Christmas Eve their father would squeeze his thickening body into his old Mess Kit, they would put on their best Number One Uniforms, their mother would don an indescribable new hat, and they would truck on down to church. While religion played a large part in their lives at home, they quite deliberately avoided church whenever they could, not being able to stomach the arrant hypocrisy.

They ate lunch with Chris, then wandered down to the beach, sat on the damp sand, and just enjoyed each other's company. After a while they returned to the Gunroom and as expected found a beehive of activity. The mess table had been transformed into an ironing board. Jon, Fred, and Alfie were busily ironing their freshly cleaned uniforms, iron in one hand, and a can of spray starch in the other.

Alfie's can of starch emitted a stuttering death rattle. "Shit," he complained. "I'm out of starch." He turned to the other boys. "Can I use some of yours?" he asked Fred.

Jon, remembering The Gunner's recent speech, grinned wickedly as he cupped his balls through his tight, white briefs. "You've heard of Canada Starch? Well, Alfie me old son, under here is the finest Canadian starch you'll ever find. If you wait for ten minutes, I'll give you enough to starch every gunshirt you own!"

Alfie cringed at the very thought of using Jon's "starch." He looked at Fred and winked, then took the proffered can of spray starch and let fly. Before Jon could react Alfie proceeded to soak the front of his underpants.

Fred watched as Jon hooted and fell backwards on his bed. He started to laugh and bent double, holding his stomach. Alfie could not resist and sprayed Fred's bottom. Fred jumped as the cold spray of starch soaked his boxers and flew forward, landing on Jon, who called Fred a pervert and pushed him onto the deck. The resultant thud of Fred landing brought Tyler into the Gunroom. He threatened to charge everybody with the illegal discharge of starch, waving a shot mat to make his point.

Ignoring the shouting and tumult at the other end of the mess was another group of cadets, gathered around Harry's bed for a boot-polishing party. Harry, who was ill pleased at being interrupted when he was holding court, growled that if they didn't all shut up he'd hold gun drill with Alfie, Jon and Fred acting as 12-pound field guns and the cans of spray starch as propellant. Tyler retired to his Mess for a drink.

Chris joined the Regulating Petty Officers as they tried to repair the damage wrought to their boots by the storm. The Twins, who enjoyed a good natter with their mates, pulled out their work boots, which were scuffed and water-stained from their exertions in both Boatswain Stores and the storm, and joined the group gathered around Harry's bed. He had resumed telling his war story.

" . . . Anyway, I was at Kingston two years ago, for the sailing course." Harry was saying as he vigorously applied polish to his already pristine boot. "We lived in the Stone Frigate, and the food was not to be believed."

"We're not interested in the food at Kingston," griped Fred.

"Who said you were?" asked Harry calmly. "Do you want to hear this story or not?"

The other cadets nodded. If the story involved sex, they definitely wanted to hear it.

Harry nodded and continued on. "All right, there we were at Kingston. We did the course, and then we had the Graduation Parade, the usual bullshit. That night there was a monster party in the Mess. They even had a so-so band, because they invited a whole bunch of Wrenettes from Kingston."

"Girls?" squealed Chris.

"Yeah, girls. You know, they don't have dicks and if you're lucky they have big tits."

The Twins rolled their eyes and glared at Harry. This from a boy who readily admitted that the closest he had ever come to getting laid was a dry hump on the dance floor at HMCS CARELTON. Chris blushed and Harry continued blithely on. "A guy name Danny, he hooked on to a Wren and they wandered off to Fort Henry. One thing led to another and she gave him a humongous blowjob. Only thing was, she did him standing up and when he came he blew a load so big he fell backwards, rolled down the glacis and into the moat. Silly fucker was sore for a week and happy for a month."

"That's it?" complained Two Strokes. "You didn't get laid? Some guy got a blowjob and you didn't?"

"I never said I did," replied Harry smoothly as he grandly waved away Two Strokes' objection. "All I got was a feel when I was dancing and when she felt how big I was she wouldn't let me near her."

The cadets threw their polishing clothes at him and groaned at his assertion of greatness in his basket. Then they started playing "do you know", primarily about guys they had met with big cocks. Without embarrassment they named names and suitably embellished descriptions of the size, shape and girth of impossibly huge penises.

Thumper unknowingly put his foot into it. "This guy had a dick about a foot long, I mean it was huge," he said with feeling. "A dick built for large women and small ponies. A real two-hander."

"Good job you only have a two-finger one," laughed Chris.

"Bloody aye," bellowed Harry. "If he had a two-hander he'd be dead in a week, all the jerkin' he does."

As the other cadets roared Thumper stood up. In a high dudgeon he retired to his bunk, grievously insulted at Harry's remark. Harry tried to mollify him, as did the other boys. Thumper would have none of it. It was his dick, and if he wanted to beat it, it was his business. As far as he was concerned there were certain things a messmate did not kid about.

"Well, I'm not hanging around here watching him pout," said Todd, when all attempts to pacify Thumper had failed. "We might as well go over to the canteen."

Cory followed Todd's lead. They put away their polishing gear and changed into shorts and loose fitting T-shirts. As they were about to leave Chris asked if he could tag along.

They left the Staff Barracks and wandered toward the canteen. Cory complained about the heat, wishing they could go for a swim.

"The beach is a mess," said Chris. "Driftwood and dead kelp all over the place. Besides, the surf is still a bit high. No swimming until Base sends a work party to clean up the beach and the seas calm down."

"Well, I'm not all that hot-to-trot about the canteen. It's like, terminally boring at the best of times," complained Cory. He hated the music that blared out of the jukebox, usually loud, and almost always rock of some kind.

Chris dug in to the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a ring of keys. "We can always go to Boatswain Stores," he said with a sly grin on his face.

Todd stopped walking and stared at him. "Where did you get those?"

"Stuart gave them to me before lunch. I'm Duty Boatswain tonight." Chris shrugged. Then he waggled the keys. "Well?"

Cory looked at Todd. They both knew what Chris was getting at. "Ah, Chris," began Todd, "Ah, are you sure? I mean, what happened in the shower was great, and all, but, well . . ."

"Todd, I'm sure," answered Chris seriously. "I'm sure I love you and Cory. I'm sure that I want to be with both of you. Yesterday happened because I wanted it to happen, just as I want something to happen again now."

Chris unlocked the door to Boatswain Stores and held the door open. When the Twins were inside he carefully locked the door again. "We can use the office," he said as he gestured for the Twins to follow him to the corner office.

After making sure the office door was locked the Twins stripped off their tees, then their shorts. They were not wearing underpants. Chris followed suit, removing his tee, and lowering his shorts and Cory's borrowed boxers that he had on underneath. They stood there, nude, with the weak sun streaming through the grimy window, shimmering off the Twins' golden hair. Chris reached out and touched first the helmet-shaped head of Todd's penis, then Cory's. Todd smiled and reached down. He stroked Chris to hardness, and then knelt down.

Chris moaned as an incredible warm, wet, sensation coursed through his boner. Chris felt Todd's hand on his balls as he tickled and fondled them. He felt his ass cheeks being spread and a tongue gently lapping and snuffling his smooth, hairless globes. He leaned forward, offering his most private part to the probing tongue. An electric shock surged through him as Cory's tongue slipped into him.

Todd began to bob up and down on Chris's hot cock, his tongue searching for and finding every sensitive spot on it. He continued to knead and roll Chris's balls as Cory's tongue moved in and out of Chris's opening, savaging the super sensitive membranes. Chris felt as if a forest fire were raging throughout his body. He could feel the flames reaching upward as his cum-filled balls ached for release.

Todd's tongue and lips found the glory spot just below Chris's mushroom, where it joined the blood-engorged shaft. Cory's tongue moved rapidly in and out of his entry, sucking avidly.

"OhmyGod . . .Ohymygod . . ." Chris groaned loudly. "OhmyGod . . .I'm . . .I'm . . ."

Todd's head moved faster, Chris's cock flared, and a huge load of semen filled Todd's mouth. At the same time both Todd and Cory, who had been rapidly fisting their boners, let go, each boy groaning and growling as their spunk spattered Chris's shin and calf.

Chris continued to cum hard, so hard his balls ached with pleasure. He felt small tremors rolling through him as Todd licked and sucked his softening cock, searching for more of his creamy boy juice. He lowered himself and lay back on the dusty floor. Todd continued to suck, concentrating on Chris's almost unbearably sensitive helmet. "PleasePleasePlease," Chris begged, unable to stand the sheer ecstasy. Todd listened and finally released him.

Todd and Cory lay beside Chris, each boy breathing heavily, sated. The Twins caressed and stroked Chris glowing body. Chris sat up and grinned broadly. Then he leaned down and took Todd's cum slicked cock in his mouth, bringing him to hardness. He left Todd and concentrated on Cory's soft, semen-streaked mushroom. When they were both hard and proud he leaned over and kissed Todd, his tongue tasting the last remnants of his own cum. Then he kissed Cory. "My turn," he said with a soft, evil, leering chuckle.

Todd, Cory, and Chris, exhausted, but very happy, sat in the warm sun outside of Boatswain Stores, watching the world go by. The harbour was dotted with sailboats, and an occasional trawler drifted by on its way out to the fishing grounds. Up the bay they could see a small clutch of cadets lying on the beach, catching rays. It was a perfect do-nothing kind of a day.

The boys were bare-chested, having used their T-shirts to clean themselves after their lovemaking. Not, as Cory had observed, that there had been much to clean up. Still, there were some cum spots on the deck that they didn't want to have to explain to Stuart when he came in tomorrow morning.

The Master at Arms and the Cadet Gunner, Tyler and Val now after last night's bonding session, together with Kyle walked by on their way to the Boat House. They were dressed in swimming shorts, and each carried a towel and an orange life jacket. Tyler waved and asked if the Twins and Chris wanted to go sailing with them. They waved their thanks but declined the invitation. They were quite content where they were. Chris moved down, cocked his arm and rested his head in one hand. With the other he began idly playing with the soft blond hair on Todd's leg. "Did you ever, I mean have you . . ." he jerked his head towards Tyler and Val as they disappeared into the Boat Shed.

Todd shook his head. "We wanted to. Val and Tyler are hunks. So is Kyle. But, Chris, you just can't go around jumping some guy's bones whenever you feel like it."

"You really have to be very careful," said Cory. "Unless the guy comes on to you it's better to leave him alone and beat off. Safer, too. Some guys get real nasty if you put the moves on them."

"And always watch out for the guys who are always hanging around with their dicks in their hands. All they want to do is fuck you," warned Todd.

"Or fuck your face." Cory leaned forward and hugged his knees. "I love sucking cocks, but I hate a guy who slams into me like he's fucking some bitch on heat. I bit the last guy who tried it."

Chris sat up, shocked. "You didn't!"

"He sure as fuck did!" replied Todd, laughing. "He left his teeth marks on the guy's dick."

"He left us alone after that, didn't he?" returned Cory, standing up.

"Where are you going?" asked Todd.

Cory shrugged. "All this talk is making me horny. My dick is too sore for another go round." He shaded his eyes and looked toward the main cluster of buildings. "The bus from Base is here. New kids coming in." He pointed toward the road leading from town.

"There's The Gunner's car. I guess he met them," observed Todd as he and Chris stood up.

With the sun warm on their bare backs they ambled towards their quarters and as they passed the Headquarters Building the bus pulled up, followed by The Gunner's Land Rover. The Gunner got out of his car, waved to the three cadets and then started to sort out the thirty odd New Entries, young cadets who had just arrived to start their course.

The Gunner was wearing his usual Sunday rig of baggy shorts and an overlarge tee. Cory and Todd glanced at The Gunner's muscular legs and well-formed chest. Cory sighed quietly. The sigh was not lost on Chris.

The three boys sat on the low concrete steps of the Headquarters Building, dodging and moving as the other cadets slammed in and out as they tried to complete their In Routine. "This place is too busy," griped Cory. He stood up and yawned. "I'm going in for a shower, then I think I'll have me a nap." With that he walked quickly down the gravel path that led to the Gunroom.

"Is he all right?" Chris asked, concerned.

"He's fine." Todd looked at Chris. "He's got the hots for The Gunner, is all," he said abruptly.

Chris picked up a piece of grass and chewed on it. "That's what I thought." He gave Todd a sly look. "You too?"

"Me too. You angry?"

Chris smiled and slipped his hand up the leg of Todd's shorts. He gave Todd's warm, velvet scrotum a gentle squeeze, then pulled his hand out. "Nah. I love you and Cory. I also know that you like other guys." He shrugged philosophically. "I kind of like the Guard Officer," he admitted.

"Kyle?"

Chris nodded. "He's in my Corps. I've sort of had a crush on him forever. Almost as bad as the one I had on you and Cory."

"You check him out?" asked Todd.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, does he have what you like? He's got a dynamite body and he is nice to look at and all, but have you checked it out?" He smiled knowingly. "Some guys look great with their clothes on, but get their pants off and you can get a shock."

Chris chuckled. "I've seen him naked. It looks nice." Todd's emphasis had not been lost on him. "All of Kyle looks nice as far as I'm concerned."

"Well, I have it on very good authority, namely Cory, that he's got a nice one when its excited. Some guys, they look all right soft, all smooth and everything and then you see them with a hardon and it's ugly city." He grimaced and stood up. "We can't fool around but I would like to take a shower with you. If we hurry you can chuck shit at Cory. Tell him he has small balls. That really gets him going."

"But I like Cory's balls," replied Chris with a grin. He waggled his eyebrows. "Yours too, for that matter."

After supper Val dragooned the Gunroom into a game of baseball. Tyler ambushed The Gunner and Kyle, the Guard Officer, and asked them to join the cadets in a game of pickup. Kyle agreed at once. He missed the rough-and-tumble of the cadet mess and the camaraderie. He missed being with the boys, and being one of the boys. The Gunner agreed as well. He was a baseball fanatic and one of the things he missed was the absence of any organized sports at AURORA. Except for the Staff Cadets, most of the trainees were so involved in their classes and practical work that there was simply no time left in the schedule for anything other than training.

There was no shortage of players. This being Sunday night nothing was doing anywhere. No movie, and there were just so many games of shuffleboard that could be played, so many games of cards that could be dealt. Kyle, as an officer, picked one team, The Gunner the other. The Twins, because of their reputation on the playing fields were, much to their annoyance, split up, Todd going to the Shirts, Cory to the Skins, and Fred, who claimed to be allergic to sports, agreed to act as umpire. The Gunner's team lost the toss and stripped off their tees. Kyle's multi-coloured team, each cadet wearing a different coloured tee shirt, argued over the batting rotation. Fred glared at everybody, adjusted his hastily donned jock, yelled "Batter up" and the game was on.

The Gunner, by unanimous dissent, was pitcher and had a good first inning. He managed to walk Todd and Two Strokes before Thumper hit the ball into play. Cory, who was playing first base, managed to snag the pop fly from Thumper, threw the ball to Ryan, who was second baseman, who threw it to Chris, who was on third. Three men out and it was the Skins turn at bat.

Chris was first up in the Skins batting rotation. He grinned at Two Strokes, who was pitching for the Shirts, who smiled back and waggled his eyebrows. He let loose with a curving fastball. Chris swung his bat, missed, whirled and lost his balance, falling flat on his ass. Randy Lowndes, a recently arrived Sea Puppy and catching for the Skins, giggled at the very dirty name Chris called Two Strokes. Chris connected with the next pitch, driving the ball right into the first baseman's glove. Val held up the ball and did a little victory dance.

Rob followed Chris, to equally dismal results, his pop fly easily caught by Two Strokes. Cory was next. He took a few practice swings and glared at Two Strokes, who glared back, wound up, and let fly. Cory connected and belted a long ball into centre field. Harry, who was playing shortstop, leaped up. The ball clipped the tip of his glove and bounced once before he was able to scoop it up and throw it to Thumper, who was third baseman. Cory made it to second. Randy, a skinny, redheaded boy who looked as if a strong breeze would carry him away, was next up and he batted Cory home. It was the first, and only run the Skins made for the next five innings.

As expected a crowd gathered along the edges of the parade square. With one of their own playing the Sea Puppies - all 37 of them - rooted for Skins, led by Randy's best friend, Joey Pelham. The others, assorted gunners, storekeepers, odds, sods, boffins and the ship's cat, thoroughly enjoyed themselves as they hooted and hollered for their favourite team, called Fred's eyesight into question when he made a bonehead call, and generally behaved like any fan at a ball game. The Gunner, who was having the time of his life, grinned at Kyle, who grinned back. This was what it was really all about. Boys having fun being boys. They didn't realize it, but this game, and much of what they did and whom they met here, would be part of their memories for a long time, sometimes for the rest of their lives.

At the top of the sixth, with the score 2 - 1 in favour of the Shirts, The Gunner stepped up to the plate. Two Strokes grinned and spat a long stream onto the dusty square. He was aware of The Gunner's ability but figured he could sucker him. Two Strokes figured wrong.

The Gunner's bat connected with the ball and it slammed past Two Strokes and Brian, hit the Headquarters Building and rolled. As Brian ran after it, The Gunner loped around the bases. Score tied. His team-mates went wild, some slapping his back, the more daring ones (led by Cory) whacking his firm butt. The next two innings were scoreless, which was not surprising. The teams were evenly matched and all of them had played before, either on school teams or on the sandlot. Then in the top of the 9th Shirts took the lead with two more runs. The Gunner used all his training and knowledge to keep up the Skins' spirits. His main concern was that they enjoyed themselves although he realized full well that, being boys, they placed much more emphasis on winning than he did. Both teams were pumped, and with an exuberant audience looking on the rivalry was great.

Two Strokes was feeling very pleased with himself. His pitching had kept the Skins down to two runs. He had no doubt that his good right arm would win the game for him. Unfortunately his ego got the better of him and he choked. In the bottom of the 9th he walked Chris. Trying to recover, he threw wild and clipped Rob, who went to first. The next batter up was Cory.

"All right then, boychick, it looks like it's up to you," The Gunner told Cory as he chose his bat.

Cory nodded. "Two Strokes is hot today. Except for those two walks he hasn't made an error all game."

"There's always a first time."

"Yeah. But he's awful good."

"You are better," replied The Gunner firmly. He smacked Cory on the fanny and pointed him toward the plate. Cory was glowing as he walked up to the plate. The fanny slap was all he needed. No matter what Two Strokes did, no matter how he pitched, Cory knew he was going to hit a homer.

Two Strokes made the pitch. Cory swung the bat and heard the crack as he connected. He took off running, as Kyle put it, like a stripe-assed ape, heading for first. He rounded first and streaked for second, where he paused momentarily, looking to see where the ball had gone.

The Gunner, who had stationed himself along the third base line, and seen the ball disappear into the scrub at the edge of the square, was jumping up and down and signalling Cory to head for home. Cory turned to make his run when it happened. Nicholas, who wanted to win as badly as anyone else, and who knew the score was now tied, reached out and yanked down Cory's shorts. He was as shocked as everyone else when he saw that Cory wore no underwear.

Cory, his shorts around his knees, tried gamely to continue on, running and hopping while trying at the same time to pull up his shorts. He was about halfway to third when he stumbled. He picked himself up and managed to get his shorts hiked up. He ran to third, rounded it, and headed home.

Brian had the ball at last and threw it to Todd, who threw it to Two Strokes, who fired it at Jon, who was catching. Cory threw himself forward, sliding like a luge on his stomach, his arms extended. The ball crossed the plate just as Cory's hand hit it.

Fred yelled "He's SAFE". Cory had scored the winning run.

His team-mates went wild, pummelling his back, slapping his butt. Chris hugged him and planted a big wet one on both cheeks. The Gunner ruffled his hair and told him that he had "Done good." Rob and David wrapped their arms around him. Cory being Cory copped a quick feel of both of them. Neither boy objected. What the fuck, he'd won the game for them.

"Jesus, Cory." exclaimed Rob. "You sure showed the world that you have balls." Cory grinned, then looked down at his sagging shorts. He wasn't too sure if Rob was talking about his home run or his flashing the whole fucking base. He saw Nicholas coming towards him, his hand extended, wanting to congratulate him. "And they just got bigger," he said grimly and as he headed for the Yeoman, his fists balled.

Nicholas, seeing the look on Cory's face, took off running. Cory tackled him at the pitcher's mound. Both boys went down, snarling and cursing, raising a cloud of dust. In the process Cory's shorts came down again and the crowd howled with laughter as Cory's butt appeared and disappeared in the dust storm.

The Gunner ran up and snatched Cory away, grabbing him around his sweat-slicked waist. "Calm down, Cory, for Christ's sake calm down," he ordered as he tried to separate the two boys.

Cory was bouncing and jumping, his arms flying and legs kicking. As he did so The Gunner's hands, quite unwillingly, slipped down, covering Cory's abundant pubic bush. As Cory jumped up and down his flaccid dick bounced against The Gunner's hand, his heat-distended balls flopping back and forth. He leaned forward and unknowingly ground his butt in The Gunner's groin.

The Gunner almost lost it. He could feel Cory's butt grinding into his crotch, and he could feel his dick starting to harden. He recovered and quickly moved his arms, grasping Cory's chest, just below his nipples. He pulled back and they crashed to the ground. "Cory, stop it!" The Gunner whispered harshly. "You're making a fool of yourself."

Cory suddenly sobered. He was lying on his back, on top of The Gunner. He could feel a tingling in his groin. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass either The Gunner or himself. He could feel a lump forming against his bare ass. "Jesus," Cory thought, "What am I doing to him?" He stopped struggling. "I am all right, Gunner," he said quickly. "You can let me up. Please?" he finished quietly.

"Sure?" asked The Gunner hopefully.

Cory nodded and The Gunner released him. He rolled off The Gunner's body and stood up. He pulled up his shorts and reached down to give The Gunner a hand up. Their hands clasped and he pulled The Gunner to his feet. The Gunner leaned forward and put his hands on his knees, breathing deeply and willing his penis to soften. He looked up at Cory. "You're stronger than you look, you little fuck." He coughed and spat out a mouthful of dust. Then he smiled. And then he winked at Cory.

"Guess I'm in the rattle again?" asked Cory, a forlorn look on his face.

"No." The Gunner shook his head, straightened, and winced as he massaged his back. "I think you did me an injury." Seeing the stricken look on Cory's face he punched his shoulder. "I'm fine, and I'll square it with Kyle, I mean Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent." He put his hand on Cory's shoulder and squeezed gently. "You got carried away in the heat of the moment is all. Now shake hands with the Yeoman and then hit the showers."

Cory nodded and walked up to Nicholas. They shook hands and Nicholas apologized for playing dirty ball. Cory brushed him aside. "You wanted to win. I understand. You got carried away in the heat of the moment, is all," he said, unconsciously echoing The Gunner. He put his arm around Nicholas's shoulders and they walked off, the best of friends. As they left the parade square Cory turned his head and saw The Gunner watching them leave. Cory smiled gently and gave him a small wave. The Gunner returned the smile and nodded, then turned and walked toward his car.

Cory disentangled himself from Nicholas and stared after the man he loved. "I will never tell," he thought. He felt himself colouring. "I will never tell what I did to you. I will never tell that I made you get excited. I will never tell that you got a lump in your pants. I swear. I swear."