Special Weapons - 2
By Ensign James Rozo, USN
`Special Weapons' was written as a standalone story in 2014. Over the years readers have requested additional details about Midshipman Boyer's summer cruise aboard Nimitz. I've also received some suggestions from marines who recounted their own experiences with midshipmen. This chapter pays homage to all the dedicated marines that defend freedom. Thank you for your service.
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Disclaimer: This sea-story, a work of fiction created solely for the entertainment of inquiring adults, contains content not approved by the Department of The Navy. The author has no current affiliation within DON and the views expressed aren't representative of Navy/ Marine Corps positions or opinions.
Warning: Sexual interactions between DON members, while prohibited by UCMJ Article 125, are nonetheless prevalent... especially at sea. This story contains explicit sexual situations. If graphic depictions are offensive or illegal, please do not read any further.
Chapter 2
02 0146Z Jul79, 34-18-40 N, 75-24-13 W
USS Nimitz CVN 68 secures from flight quarters.
After eight hours of launching and recovering aircraft, sailors in color coded jerseys - yellow, blue, or brown, reposition and secure the birds with tie-down chains. A klaxon sounds, elevator No. 3 activates, and two F-14 Tomcats belonging to the `Black Aces' of VF-41strike below to the hanger bay for overnight maintenance.
On the fantail a silhouette moves cautiously in the dark.
Acclimating to pervasive blackness, night vision slowly differentiates objects into coherent shapes in shades of gray. Maneuvering around deck fittings Midshipman 3/c Boyer locates the aft mooring bitts. Securely perched, he is lost in introspection.
Last week a platoon of marines initiated him in a weapons magazine. Stealing his masculine birth right, they aggressively sodomized him for hours. The bruised and battered throat and gaped ass are only now recovering. The harrowing adventure exhumed a deeply buried truth: he is not a normal boy.
And the illusion of heterosexuality is irreparably shattered.
A warm summer breeze blows a briny mist.
The fantail vibrates with the rhythmic pulse of the ship's four 25-foot manganese-bronze propellers. Leaning over wire-rope lifelines he watches the ship's wake. Mesmerized by the turbulent fluidity, the white and turquoise churning effervescence stretches for miles.
All men are connected to the sea. There is salt in their blood, their sweat, their tears. Casting a hypnotic spell, the sea beckons and promises freedom from tribulations. Lost in a moment of mortality Boyer feels the seductive pull into eternal darkness... back home from whence he came.
"You're not going to jump, are you?" asks a disembodied voice.
"What? N...no. No," Boyer whispers unconvincingly.
A marine appears out of the shadows.
"Good. It would be a shame to waste prime sea-pussy."
The imposing Teutonic warrior has buzzed-cut blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a rugged square jaw. Battle hardened, the scared coriaceous skin stretched over lean muscle is evidence of unwavering devotion to corps and country.
Staff Sergeant (SSgt) Thomas Karp is a keen observer of men. Previously stationed aboard amphibious assault ships he understands the vicissitudes of nautical life. Some sailors transcend hardship and meet the challenge; others not so much.
The moment a boy joins the military his chances of being sexually assaulted increase by a factor of ten. The warrior culture is built upon a tenuous balance of aggression and obedience. And the potential for violence exists whenever there is too much of either.
It's not just about the sex; although the pleasure is undeniable.
It's more about power and control.
Cajoled and coerced into submissive roles, emasculated young men become depressed and suicidal... taking their own lives at a rate three-times greater than their civilian counterparts.
Karp has surreptitiously watched Boyer since the initiation. Having expended time and energy on the midshipman the marines are looking for a reasonable return on their investment. They anticipate indulging many more abhorrent fetishes and perverse predilections.
A boy never forgets his first Marine Corps gangbang: the searing pain of penetration, the aggressive advancement through the anfractuous passageway, the brutal thrusting with reckless abandon, the stretching and wrecking of the defenseless ring. And, of course the haunting laughter, overwhelming humiliation, and obliteration of self-esteem and masculine identity.
"You're an exceptional cocksucker too," notes Karp.
Boyer looks towards the horizon.
Moonlight dances off the ocean's surface as stars illuminate the atramentous curtain of sky. Lost in sweet oblivion, the ship's vibration hums an eerie lullaby as he remembers his boyhood.
It was a joyful time of innocence and discovery.
And he learned all about cocks.
Born in Clinton New Jersey, Matt Boyer spends the summer at his Uncle's farm in Eastern Lancaster County in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Nestled in the rolling hills are isolated towns and communities surrounded by Amish and Mennonite farmlands.
After chores are completed he plays prisoner pursuit with his three male cousins and several of their friends from neighboring farms. The energetic young boy is selected as the escaped prisoner' while the older boys are law enforcement'.
They give him a 20 minute head start.
And the escaped convict takes off running.
In hot pursuit, with the assistance of the farm's dogs they track him through fields, across a stream, and into the nearby woods. Knowing the terrain they have an unfair advantage. Splitting into two groups they outflank him and the barking dogs playfully chase and tackle him.
Cornered and captured the prisoner is stripped and interrogated.
On the cusp of puberty his 2-inch cocklet is on display.
"Cool boner," said Aaron, the youngest cousin, making no effort to hide his interest. He is fascinated by the overhanging fleshy bonnet at the end of the appendage. He's never seen one like that before. His brothers and friends all have exposed knobs.
"He's not clipped," adds Caleb, the knowledgeable oldest brother. "That's a foreskin. All cocks look like that before they get cut."
"Neat. How does it work?"
"You just pull it back over the ridge."
Adolescent boys are naturally obsessed with cocks. Presented with an educational opportunity, they take turns exploring the foreskin and sliding it back-and-forth. The tiny purple helmet looks like a baby turtle ducking its head in-and-out of its shell.
In the summer the boys go commando. Easily excited, the outlines of growing erections are clearly visible inside their worn cutoff jeans and bib-coveralls. Boys being boys, with little provocation everyone quickly pulls out their gear.
Gathered in a circle they compare their stuff.
It's a timeless rite-of-passage for males.
Questioning their own development, boys are inherently interested in the physical progress of their brothers, friends, and competitors. Driven by instinct to impress females, intimidate foes, and inflate social status, males have always blatantly displayed their genitals.
Size helps establish the pack's pecking order and breeding rights.
And bigger is always better.
With no direct correlation between flaccid and erect, the boys furiously stroke until fully erect. Proudly parading their masculinity, strutting with shameless confidence, their growing potential is on display... representing the fully spectrum of adolescent development.
The allure is undeniable and Matt's vision is inexorably drawn downward. Taking inventory, gorging on the sumptuous visual feast, he is dazed by the bobbing cocks and their proportions. Shaking with excitement he senses the power surging within the awakened instruments of male domination.
"They're huge," whispers the enthralled boy.
"Mine has grown an inch over the winter," states a neighboring farm boy.
"Let's measure them," suggests Aaron.
"Ok, the prisoner is the official measurer," explains Jacob to the group. He is the middle brother and authority on game rules and regulations. And no one questions his pronouncements.
"Me? Umm... I don't know how."
"Don't worry we'll show you," said Jacob.
A small tape measure is produced. Inexperienced at competitive big-boy games, he is instructed in the best procedure to produce fair and consistent results. Accuracy is important. And every quarter-inch has a significant impact on fragile egos and developing self-esteem.
"Hold it firmly. Measure across the top from base to tip," advises Caleb.
Length is valued over girth.
Almost fainting from excitement Matt grasps each boy in turn in his trembling hands. The meaty shafts, warm and smooth, throb with life as pearls of natural lubricant leak from the heads. Squeezing the pulsating shafts he struggles to maintain control over the willful appendages.
Bending the shafts downward, applying the tape, calling out numbers, he confirms proud boasts and confers immediate status. While serious bragging rights are at stake, it's also all in good fun: getting measured, exchanging jokes, and having a few good laughs.
Caleb is the clear winner. The well-equipped fifteen year old is packing an impressive man-sized tool surrounded by a thick bush of luxurious brown hair. But his brother Jacob is catching up fast...having grown considerably over the past year.
Six erections are on display. No possible way to re-trouser them in this state. Usually the boys proceed to a circle jerk, seeing who can blast the farthest. But not this time.
"The prisoner has to suck everyone," Jacob boldly claims.
The boys all turn and look at him in surprise.
No such rule exists. The brothers had previously discussed introducing their cousin to farm life. In Amish Country, with girls locked away until marriage, alternative pleasures are pursued. And cock sucking and cornholing are acceptable substitute activities for randy boys.
Exchanging looks with layers of significance, joining the conspiracy, grinning from ear-to-ear, the brothers understands the pivotal event about to unfold. Excited by the prospect of getting sucked they nod in silent agreement. Being at a venerable age it will be easy to corrupt their cousin.
"What?" Matt asks incredulously.
"That's the rule. It's the penalty for getting captured," Jacob explains.
Naturally inquisitive, Matt is clearly fascinated with the more mature boys' cocks. Possessing pretty pink lips, a generous tongue, and an inviting mouth, the submissive boy is the perfect cocksucker. He just needs a little push to understand his true purpose in life.
"That's right. You have to do it," adds Caleb with authority.
And the issue is settled.
Idolizing his older cousins, craving their continued attention, the trusting boy is eager to please the superior males. Confused but compelled, he obediently gets down on his knees.
Nervous, he's never done this before. So many questions run through his head. How do you give a blow-job: suck it or blow on it? What does a cock taste like? Will they cum in his mouth? Should he spit or swallow? Is it safe to drink cum? Will he get pregnant?
Bursting with anticipation Jacob steps forward and thrusts his cock in the boy's face. The thirteen year old has a curving 5.25-incher with a wide crimson crown.
Matt studies the majestic cock. Something new and wonderful, requiring attention and examination, it's totally unsuitable for an innocent boy. Trembling involuntarily with almost unbearable excitement and fear, he reaches out and grasps the velvet-smooth steel shaft.
"It's pretty amazing, right?" asks Jacob.
Speechless, the young boy can only nod in the affirmative.
"Kiss it."
All eyes are on Matt. Everyone is holding their breath. Waiting.
Will he do it?
Sacrificing innocence for camaraderie he obediently leans forward. Parting pristine lips, placing them on the blood-engorged head, he embraces his first cock and kisses it.
Extending his curious tongue, he experiences the first taste of forbidden fruit and is surprised by the textual perfection. A mouthwatering delight, the intoxicating sweetness of cream corn accentuated with crystals of gourmet sea salt resonates on his tongue.
"Go on... have at it. Suck me!"
Opening impossibly wide, he struggles to accommodate the offering. Possessing more enthusiasm than ability, he is determined to prove his worth and earn his cousins' respect. Thankfully, Jacob offers assistance, pressing down on the boy's head until the glans pops inside the adolescent mouth.
"It's in!" Jacob needlessly shouts.
And the boys exchange congratulatory high-fives.
Smiling with supreme satisfaction, Jacob experiences the ultimate pleasure of subjugating another male. Housed inside the mouth, followed by several inches of thickening shaft, occupying all the available real estate, the cock is where it belongs.
And before Matt realizes it he's sucking.
There's no return to innocence; no way to un-suck a cock.
Fulfilling his destiny, he commences the transformational journey into a cocksucker. Taking suction, swirling his tongue around the soft succulent head, he is prematurely rewarded with a sudden and violent discharge. Salty and sweet, he swallows repeatedly to get it all down.
Eventually everyone get a turn and goes home happy...
...including Matt with a full belly of warm sperm.
All agree he is the best prisoner ever.
With conspiratorial grins they unanimously elect him `prisoner' for the duration of his visit. Word spreads and other boys eagerly join the game over the summer. Learning the art of cock sucking he accommodates all offerings... enjoying a wide variety of farm-fresh Amish custards.
Time passes too quickly and the boys are sad to see him leave for home. Laying the groundwork with their parents, the boys praise Matt's work on the farm. They eagerly await his return next year.
And Matt perfects deep-throat skills over the next few summers.
Shadows move on the fantail; nocturnal predators hunting.
Staff sergeant Karp provocatively rubs his protuberant cock. Housed inside the green camouflage utility trousers, it's ready for deployment. Retracting the brass zipper, reaching inside, with difficulty he extracts the special weapon. Unconstrained, the expanding ordnance twitches with anticipation.
The attraction is undeniable.
And Boyer fights the instinctive urge to fall to his knees.
Although enveloped in darkness they are fully exposed on the fantail. A popular sanctuary from military madness, sailors frequent the aft weather deck at night to decompress, connect with nature, and smoke the day's last cigarette. Dangerous liaisons are also sought.
Navigating between desire and disaster, outlaws and renegades search for drugs and sex. There is a robust underground marketplace for both. With 5,200 swinging dicks aboard there is an insatiable demand for cannabis and cocksuckers.
Submissive non-rates and other inferior males are routinely forced to stand-the-watch by controlling alphas. More effective than conventional cumshaw, sex is a powerful currency and an essential facilitator in the accomplishment of daily objectives.
Young midshipmen are also pressed into service.
Karp proudly parades his masculinity.
Shamelessly stroking the shaft, accentuating its length and girth, the absurdly oversized weapon reaches maximum tumescence: nine solid inches of destruction. Deployed to devastating effect it has wrecked many cunts, crewmen, and college boys.
Boyer can't believe his eyes. The marine is saying something but Boyer can't hear anything over the pounding heart beat reverberating in his ears. Trembling involuntarily, the prodigious cock suffuses his senses. And all he can think about is the damage the massive weapon will inflict.
"I said show it respect."
"Umm... oh, ok, but not here," as Boyer nervously glances around.
"Bullshit. Here and now," Karp demands.
The risk of discovery elevates his pleasure. Trained to be aggressive on the battlefield he seeks danger and high-sensation adrenaline fueled exploits. Confronting mortality, looking over the edge, the thrill of danger rejuvenates the spirit and makes him feel alive.
Moving towards the paralyzed midshipman he places his broad and calloused hands upon the boy's shoulders. Insistent downward pressure is applied. Clearly in charge, he decisively settles the issue... reaffirming Boyer's insignificant position in the military hierarchy.
"P... please... it's too dangerous."
But the midshipman's will and knees are already buckling.
Breathing rapidly and perspiring profusely his body radiates the unforgettable scent of English Leather cologne. A rich and complex fragrance of citrus, wood, moss, and leather, the enticing scent is ideal for enjoying special times with shipmates.
Boyer risks everything.
Getting sucked is a natural part of nautical life. Real men who get shipmates down on their knees are respected and admired. Cocksuckers, however, are a different matter.
If caught by an officer or resolute master-at-arms they are prosecuted for homosexual conduct. Officially unsuitable for military service, per DoD policy gay sailors are summarily separated with a Bad Conduct Discharge. But only after a stint in the brig.
Sailors have very few rights; brig-rats even less so. Ferocious guardians of regulations, marines delight in running the brig and providing rats with Extra Military Instruction (EMI). Ensuring beneficial lessons resonate, extensive mental, physical, and sexual abuse is part of the re-education process.
Karp's potent weapon is inches from Boyer's face.
The air is charged with expectancy.
The midshipman experiences conflicting emotions from the unexpected opportunity to service the superior male. It's the fulfilment of his military purpose. With desire coursing through his veins he trembles with almost unbearable anticipation and fear.
The staff sergeant takes control. Aggressively smacking Boyer's startled face with the hefty arching weapon he asserts dominance as loud smacks punctuate the night.
And the boy absorbs a substantial bitch-slapping.
The distinctive sound attracts attention. The soft susurrations of sailors in shadows surround them. Carefully maneuvering for unobstructed views they stroke tumid cocks through worn bellbottom dungarees. The seasoned salts and sea dogs know what's coming.
A sizable school of Naval Academy and University NROTC midshipmen are aboard for summer training: boys from Annapolis, Cornell, Duke, Notre Dame, and Villanova. So there is plenty of fresh collegiate seafood available to satisfy every enlisted appetite.
Dedicated sailors and marines provide inexperienced midshipmen with a robust fleet education. The fun lies in initiating the boys: tricking them into surrendering their free-will, domesticating their spirit, stealing their masculinity, and stuffing them full of enlisted jam.
Karp rubs the leaking glans across Boyer's lips.
Every male presents a unique tasting experience. Intensely flavored, the distinctive piquancy resonates in the boy's memory: crisp black cherry and chocolate with a spicy peppery note. He's encountered this one before... in the weapon's magazine: the platoon leader.
"Suck it."
Boyer obediently leans forward.
Opening wide, taking suction, he engulfs the warhead. Drawn into the purely sensual moment, appreciating the warm silky mouthfeel, wrapping his tongue around perfection, he instinctively welcomes the thickening shaft as it relentlessly advances deeper.
Continuing the assault Karp stuffs more inside until perched upon the throat's precipice. Tilting the head back to ensure proper alignment, lunging forward, the weapon disappears down the ballooning throat. Grinning with satisfaction he presses the last few inches home until two-blocked.
"That's it... you got it all."
A shaft of moonlight light illuminates Boyer's stuffed face and bulging neck. A dozen sailors watch the throat-fucking. Smirking, extracting and furiously stroking their own swollen enlisted weapons, they know the midshipman will soon be available for communal use.
"Fuck yeah... feed him," encourages a sailor.
Holding Boyer's head tightly, pumping hard, mercilessly assaulting him with long deliberate strokes, the marine builds momentum towards a climax. Driving balls deep, stiffening, he explodes and feeds the boy generous quantities of Marine Corps jam.
Ooh-rah!
Boyer swallows for all he is worth.
Several chunks of nepenthean jam escape his mouth, trickle over his battered lips, and dribble down his chin. Milking every last drop as the marine extracts the deflating cock he greedily consumes the delicious custard and forgets his troubles.
Karp looks at the boy with a cocky grin.
"Report to MarDet berthing tomorrow. Twenty-hundred."
Boyer understands he will be repeatedly sodomized; that's a given. But what else might ensue? Sea stories of unconventional rituals and debauchery are well known at Annapolis. But with pictures and videos from the previous initiation he has no choice but to cooperate.
The marines own his ass; he's their sea-bitch.
"Aye, aye staff sergeant."
With the marine's immediate needs satisfied the surrounding sailors encircle the docile midshipman. After a difficult day at sea conducting flight operations and damage control drills the men need to relax and blow a load before turning-in for the night.
"He's all yours," Karp addresses the throng of sailors, "but his ass is off-limits."
The sailors understand the terms of utilization. No right-minded blue-jacket would dare risk violating the restriction...or they could end up brutalized and deep-sixed. A dangerous environment, accidents are common at sea and sailors can easily `fall' overboard... never to be recovered.
In the low levels of illumination a plethora of erect cocks materialize with surprising clarity. Strutting, the sailors proudly parade their weapons like a Soviet May-day spectacle in Red Square. Surrendering to primitive compulsions to expel jam they will feed the midshipman long into the night.
"You want this, cocksucker?" asks an imposing sailor.
Mesmerized, Boyer slowly nods in the affirmative.
The petty officer strokes the tumid shaft and positions the bulbous glans against the midshipman's swollen lips... spreading the leaking juices like lip balm.
The sweet-salty taste of masculinity resonates. Intoxicated, Boyer willingly kisses the cockhead and demonstrates respect to the superior male. Rolling his tongue around the flared contours of the broad crown he savors the amazing taste and texture.
"Eat me."
And Boyer dines al fresco long into the night.
In the aggregate it's a delicious and decadent feast.
The Marine Corps is a sacred brotherhood sealed in blood.
Proud of its history, tradition, and pageantry, members pride themselves on their steadfast dedication to the organization and each other. A non-negotiable way of life, earning the right to wear the uniform, there is no such thing as an ex-marine.
The training builds superior men.
Breaking down individuality the brutal indoctrination process strips away personal desires, doubts, fears, and weakness. Establishing the supremacy of the team, it forges special weapons imbued with uncompromising values: honor, courage, commitment, and loyalty.
Adaptive and persistent, marines are justifiably proud of their renowned ability to withstand pain, fatigue, and hardship under adverse conditions. Technically and tactically proficient, physically strong and mentally tough, they are formidable instruments of the National will.
Operating in asymmetrical battlespace, immersed in chaos and confusion, surrounded by death and destruction, they vanquish adversaries with lethal efficiency. When possible high-value targets are captured and aggressively interviewed for vital intelligence.
Staff Sergeant Karp is proficient in the art of interrogation.
Trained in various extraction methods, he has a special 4-digit military occupational specialty designation. Innovative and resourceful, he applies proven techniques to unconventional situations not considered in any instruction manual.
Aboard Nimitz he instructs MarDet's less experienced private first class (PFC) and lance corporals (LCpl) in methods for subjugating inferior males. Devising entertaining scenarios, blending theory with practical field exercises, they take every opportunity to refine their skills while having some fun.
Midshipmen are excellent training aids.
Last week Karp easily broke Boyer.
Focusing on latent fears and inherent vulnerabilities, he threatened to pop the boy's ball-bag and terminate his naval career. Obtaining unconditional surrender and cooperation, the marines initiated and sodomized him... their third midshipman since getting underway.
Immersed in a hyper-masculine culture, venting pent-up sexual energy helps marines focus on mission objectives. Although not official policy, it is universally acknowledged that utilizing indigenous resources enhances overall unit cohesion and morale.
It's the USMC way.
And leadership tacitly condones it.
First to fight, marines have been in the forefront of every American conflict since the founding of the Corps in 1775. Accomplishing over 300 landings on foreign shores from the poles to the tropics, they are the tip of the US foreign policy spear.
To the victors go the spoils.
Throughout history in order to safeguard virgin daughters from rape, impregnation, and bastard children, pragmatic fathers willingly proffered their young sons to invading armies. The boys were often sodomized, castrated, and kept as slaves.
While logistically difficult to own eunuch slaves today, marines still derive shameless pleasure in sampling the local cuisine. Their celebrated legacy is a trail of abused boys with torn assholes from the Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli.
Most agree young French boys are exceptional fucks.
Smooth and effeminate, the succulent little lambs valiantly struggle and cry for mercy in high-pitched voices as they are brutally sodomized and their farm-fresh eggs scrambled. Screw French culture; the cowards surrendered to the Germans without a fight. Twice.
Aesthetically beautiful, Greek boys have exquisite olive complexion and luxurious dark piercing eyes. Provided with a classical education, tantalizing ganymedes are always deflowered by powerful men. And marines happily assist their NATO partner in celebrating the `Greek way'.
Tender Asian chicken is also scrumptious fare. Beautiful young boys provocatively dressed are sold on every street corner by entrepreneurial uncles and older brothers. For a dollar they are ravaged and passed around to buddies for hours... forced to accommodate military grade weaponry.
Few boys, however, rival midshipmen.
The perishable commodity is best enjoyed as young plebes. Property of the US Government, stripped of free will, immersed in regimentation, they predictably follow orders and service their superiors ... compelled like the ebb and flow of the ocean's tides.
It's exhilarating fucking them: the future leaders of the Navy.
And every marine must earn his `blood stripe'.
The next day Boyer embraces his destiny.
Traversing the 2nd deck starboard passageway, passing the forward galley, scullery, and food service line, he enters mess deck No. 2. It is one of Supply Department's five separate food service facilities that combined produce over 18,000 meals daily.
Located near the forward transverse bulkhead is the hatch for MarDet berthing: 3-69-0-L. The quick-acting watertight armored fitting is given wide berth by prudent sailors. Territorial predators, marines vigorously defend their domain. And lines cannot be crossed without dire consequences.
The 1MC general announcing system sounds eight bells: 2000.
Boyer takes a slow measured breath and approaches the hatch. Sailors watch aghast as the timorous boy descends the vertical inclined ladder into Gehenna.
The 60-man berthing compartment and adjoining head are decorated with traditional USMC iconography. Containing brightwork, flags, and pictures of the President, SecDef, SecNav, and CMC, the fastidiously clean area is a shrine to military discipline.
The highly-polished tile deck has an inlayed 3-foot diameter circular medallion: the official emblem of the Marine Corps. Circumscribed by a scarlet field, a gold eagle stands upon a globe intersected by a fouled anchor. Clasped in the eagle's beak is a ribbon bearing the motto `Semper Fidelis'.
Afforded special deference, no one dares to step near the revered crest.
A young sentry in green cammies with a white duty belt stands watch.
Under arms, he guards the compartment's entrance and a weapons locker containing M-16A2 assault rifles. Besides manning special weapons magazine sentinel posts, marines also provide a rapid response force to quell internal security threats. And many inattentive sailors have been run over by hard-charging marines with loaded weapons.
"State your business," demands PFC Ramirez.
"Midshipman 3/c Boyer reporting as ordered."
The 18-year old PFC has a stunning physique. His dark eyes and smooth cognac skin is the amalgamation of his father's Caribbean roots and mother's Brazilian heritage. Lean and powerful with broad shoulders, muscular chest, and rippling abdominals, the marine is an exquisite weapon.
Ramirez was born and raised in Triangle Virginia. Located in Prince William County, the small military town is bounded to the south by Marine Corps Base Quantico.
His adolescence is deeply entwined with marines.
Handsome young enlisted men in sharp uniforms are everywhere. The epitome of masculinity, strutting like proud peacocks, commanding admiration and respect, they leave an indelible impression on the receptive boy. And when he grows up he wants to be a marine.
"Who the fuck ordered you to report?" asks the PFC.
"Well, umm... I was told..."
"I did," interjects SSgt Karp, appearing suddenly.
"Oh, staff sergeant I didn't realize..."
"Now you do, private," tersely interrupting the young devil-dog. "The midshipman is part of tonight's entertainment. Unless you'd like to take his place?
"Fuck no!" responds the nervous PFC.
"That's what I thought."
Ramirez reflects on the last nine months.
Enlisting right after high school graduation, he is transported to Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island... 4 miles south of Beaufort, South Carolina. This is where recruits learn the core values of honor, courage, and commitment.
Exiting the bus, stepping into the famous yellow footprints outside of the receiving building, he enters a totalitarian maelstrom and gets the first taste of military life.
Assigned to 2nd Recruit Training Battalion, Echo Company, 3rd platoon, he is challenged like never before. Subjected to strict discipline, strenuous physical exercise, a gale of verbal abuse, and endless rules and regulations, the shocked boy dwells in unimaginable regimentation.
With a substantial financial investment in the recruits the first order of business is group physical examinations and inspections for tattoos, brandings, piercings, and body alterations. The Marine Corps has the strictest policy of all the military services.
Body art and ornamentations that are excessive, obscene, sexually explicit or that advocate or symbolize sex, gender, racial, religious, ethnic or national origin discrimination or gang affiliation, supremacist or extremist groups, or drug use are strictly prohibited by the Corps... and grounds for disqualification.
"Strip," orders a Master Sergeant. "Everything!"
Compelled by the authoritative timbre of his voice, the similarly equipped recruits undress without hesitation, surrendering all civilian clothing. Everything is bagged, tagged, and confiscated.
Hundreds of naked recruits display their masculinity. Yielding to primitive compulsions, assessing his competition, Ramirez surreptitiously checks-out other boys. Everywhere he looks are trim, attractive, physically impressive young males in the prime of potency.
The most well-endowed recruits proudly parade their superiority.
And many sport uncontrollable erections.
Over the next three months Ramirez is inspected often, displaying his assets for his superiors. Physical property of the Corps, orders must be obeyed... and when an officer or the gunnery sergeant tells you to strip down you better comply without question. It's all about power and control.
Proving membership worthiness, his endurance, pain tolerance, and willingness to sacrifice for the Corps is tested frequently. Cursed with a magnificent curvaceous ass that begs to be ravaged, he is quickly singled out from the herd for special attention.
His Company DI, GySgt Faulkner, is especially enamored with Ramirez.
The gunnery sergeant is intoxicated with the authority to utilize government property. Engrained by time and consuetude, keen to underscore his role as a paladin of tradition, the drill instructor takes a perverse personal interest in breaking and rebuilding the boy.
Placing unconditional trust in his superiors and the training process, Ramirez strips as required. Blindly following direct commands, accepting the inevitable, he obediently descends across a pile of supply pallets stacked like a sacrificial altar.
The recruit will do whatever it takes to join the elite brotherhood.
And he understands that membership has its price.
Feasting on the succulent caramel boy, caressing the smooth skin stretched over the gluteal muscles, concupiscence stirs inside Faulkner's Service Charlies. The razor-sharp iconic uniform accentuates masculinity and proudly displays his expanding shaft, shapely cockhead, and large testicles.
Properly positioning the boy - lifting the ass, rotating the hips, and spreading the legs, the defenseless orifice is revealed in all its innate glory. Reaching between the recruit's legs, grasping the trapped orbs and viciously tugging downward on the floppy sack, he acquires Ramirez's full attention.
When you have a boy by the balls his heart and mind will follow.
"Who owns this ass, recruit?"
"The Corps!"
"That's right. And don't ever forget it."
Disdaining laborious preparations, employing a minuscule amount of spit, Faulkner runs calloused fingers around the quivering ring. Enjoying unfettered access, he digitally penetrates the tight aperture and conducts reconnaissance.
Pressing insistently deeper, the knowledgeable fingers skillfully explore the restricted channel while noting anatomical landmarks. Like Francisco Vasquez de Coronado claiming the new world for Spain, the DI will plant his flag in undiscovered country.
"Sweet ass. You're going to be a great addition to the Corps."
Releasing the pulsating weapon from his constricting trousers, the dark-purple glans is positioned on target. Without thought or concern for Ramirez's discomfort, commencing the ultimate act of domination, he slams forward and impales the recruit.
"Aauggggghhh."
"Take-the-pain," demands Faulkner.
Providing no time for acclimation the marine rams unmercifully up inside the exquisite chute. Navigating bends and constrictions, stretching and straightening the malleable passageway, rearranging internal organs, he pummels the helpless recruit and rips the kid a new one.
Stunned by the violent shafting Ramirez takes several sharp breaths. Tears stream down his contorted face. His clutching ring instinctively spasms and squeezes the massive weapon as he endures the agony of being brutally stuffed up the ass.
But he doesn't beg for mercy.
He takes it like a man; like a marine.
The ultimate reward for a drill instructor resides in molding undisciplined recruits into obedient and lethal weapons. Injected with immutable values and proud traditions, desensitized to physical pain, the finely honed men willingly sacrifice everything for Corps and Country.
Repositioning his hand on the recruit's extended lower abdomen, Faulkner feels himself protruding from inside the stuffed chute. Pulsing and ready to detonate, the outline of the thick weapon with prominent mushroom warhead is discernable under Ramirez's stretched skin.
"You feel that Ramirez?"
"Yes gunny."
"That's the Corps inside you," said Faulkner with immense pride.
And soon Ramirez is flooded with potent warrior jam.
Stuffed countless times over the next three months, many dedicated Echo Company Officers and Staff NCOs work tirelessly to forge Ramirez into a deadly marine.
The culmination of training is The Crucible. The 54-hour defining experience tests every recruit physically, mentally and morally. Enduring food and sleep deprivation, marching 45 miles through salt marshes and tidal streams, recruits solve problems and overcome a barrage of obstacles.
Surviving the rite of passage, swelling with pride, Ramirez experiences a glorious transformation as he graduates and dons the iconic dress uniform with eagle, globe and anchor insignia. The scarlet and gold course through his veins and he is forever bound to the brotherhood.
Every marine is a rifleman.
After a follow-on stint at Infantry School at Camp Lejeune for advanced weapons qualifications and combat training, he is promoted to PFC and ordered to USS Nimitz MarDet.
The Detachment has twenty-four PFCs and thirty LCpls; so the officers and staff NCO's have an abundance of boys to enjoy. All are trained to take the-pain. With plunder more popular than preservation, once the novelty and thrill of fucking a new marine wears off damaged holes are abandoned for more pristine pastures.
Staff Sergeant Karp ensures all his men receive proper training and maintain their requisite certifications. After all a leader's first responsibility is always to the care, welfare, and advancement of his subordinates. And it's been too long since Ramirez received some personal attention.
"Private, you require some EMI. Remind me to schedule you next week after the CO's personnel inspection," Karp orders.
"Aye, aye staff sergeant," swallowing hard.
A common military euphemism for remedial / refresher training, EMI is always unwelcomed. Ramirez understands that Karp will cram his massive cock up inside the junior marine. Hammering the lesson home, he will be reminded what it means to sacrifice everything for the Corps.
But for now Boyer is on the menu.
The men enjoyed playing with him last week. Diving deep into the waters of depravity, they want more. Much more. Many of the young devil-dogs have limited experience with midshipman sea-pussy. And everyone wants to sample another piece. Or two.
Karp takes control of the nervous midshipman.
"Let's go...we have a fun night planned."
Putting his arm around Boyer's waist they traverse the compartment. Navigating around racks and lockers they encounter a passel of excited marines with conspiratorial grins and obvious erections. The anxious midshipman barely notices that Karp's hand has slid down onto his ass.
And the sea-pussy is led deeper into the marine's lair.
Midshipman Boyer's adventures continue in chapter 3.
Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com