Special Weapons - 4
By Ensign James Rozo, USN
Life at sea is inherently dangerous. Surrounded by formidable deep-sea predators, defenseless midshipmen are routinely subjugated and transformed into sea-pussy. A seasonal treat for the Fleet, tender collegiate boys must be experienced to be fully appreciated.
And who doesn't enjoy fresh seafood?
The Navy is the gayest branch of the armed forces.
During World War II San Francisco served as the embarkation / debarkation point for the Pacific Fleet. After the war many sailors remained and transformed the city into a gay metropolis. Lacking housing, they took residence at various YMCA facilities. Long known to support servicemen and homosexual activity, there's always something happening at the `Y'.
This story is a work of fiction created solely for the entertainment of inquiring adults. It 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.
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.
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Chapter 4
04 0100Z Jul79, 32-49-08 N, 77-36-12 W
"It's time," Staff Sergeant (SSgt) Karp announces.
A dozen marines have enjoyed midshipman Boyer's hospitality.
The revelers have understandably wrecked the accommodations. Disintegrating in quality, the evanescent sea-pussy is rendered un-serviceable for single tenancy. Alas, the impermanence of flesh. Swept along in the entropic current of disorder, it was inevitable.
Fortunately, the marines have a viable contingency plan.
Double occupancy.
Lance Corporal (LCpl) Anthony Russo lies supine on the wrestling mat. A bulldog with devil dog banner is tattooed on his chest. According to lore, in the Battle of Belleau Wood ferocious Marines were called teufelhunde by terrified German soldiers.
Rugged and powerful, the handsome marine's chiseled musculature is sheathed in smooth olive-hued skin. Anticipating his turn with Boyer, he runs a purposeful hand up-and-down his oversized mortadella... ensuring maximum tumescence
"Damn it's fucking huge!" exclaims an envious PFC.
Russo is a modern-day Priapus. The god of male procreative power is celebrated for absurdly oversized genitalia. Son of Aphrodite by Dionysus, he is also the patron of sailors, fishermen, and others in need of good luck. And his presence averts the evil eye.
Raised in Canarsie, an Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn NY, rampant rumors of his extraordinary endowment spread throughout high school. Like metal shavings to a magnet, curious girls are inexorably drawn to him by an invisible force of nature.
He enthusiastically takes advantage of every opportunity to rupture hymen, stretch vaginal canals, and plant potent seed. Often to deleterious effect. Proudly bragging of his conquests... because that's what boys do, he earns the respect and admiration of his peers.
Facing potential repercussions, Russo hastily enlists in the Marines.
Reporting to MCRD Parris Island he enters a maelstrom of unimagined ferocity. The intense 12-week indoctrination far exceeds advertised rigor. Not the first time a motivated recruiter is economical with the truth to meet a monthly quota.
Enlistees are subjected to carefully calibrated brutality. Screaming sergeants. Suffocating regimentation. Spartan barracks. Strenuous exercise. Sleep deprivation. The time-tested process breaks down individuality, establishes esprit de corps, and validates membership worthiness.
There is a thin line between training and hazing at boot camp.
The men eat, breathe, and think the approved USMC way or are severely punished.
Memorizing reams of arcane military information, performing exhaustive physical drills, crawling through mud amid screaming instructors, and being caged naked to learn about surviving as a prisoner of war are all considered effective training methods approved by senior leadership.
Some are despondent. Russo is ebullient. He loves the culture, customs, and camaraderie. Experiencing a glorious transformation, with the scarlet and gold coursing through his veins, he is bound to the brotherhood... a small part of a great institution.
Semper Fidelis!
Everywhere are muscular young men flaunting the quiddity of masculinity. A sea of swinging dicks. Like an ostentatious North Korean military parade with banners, bombs, and ballistic missiles, the enlistees proudly strut and display their impressive weaponry.
They compulsively scrutinize each other's hardware.
Even in repose Russo's pendulous cock garners attention.
Its true magnificence is revealed when fully inflated. Proudly showing it off, he entertains recruits with vivid stories of his conquests. Since the acquisition of language men have been obsessed with telling stories. And who doesn't enjoy a good impregnation tale?
Size has ramifications.
Diminutive equipped males inherently lack confidence and swagger. With the scythe of death casting a persistent shadow, they are unsuitable to lead marines in combat. Exuding authority and invincibility, leadership is reserved for big-dicked alphas who stare down the enemy with steely resolve.
As the great General George S. Patton, US Army, once noted: `The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for his.'
Engaging in homoerotic roughhousing and grab-ass play in the showers, recruits advertise a willingness to explore boundaries. Young, dumb, and full of cum, they are amenable to trying anything once. After all, how do you know you don't like something if you've never tried it?
They have a cacoethes for embracing pain.
Looking to demonstrate toughness, bold dares and questionable challenges are exchanged. Stakes escalate. After all the bravado it's impossible to back down. Reputations are in the balance. With peers watching several bend over for a shafting.
Of critical importance is how well the recruit absorbs the pain. Style matters. They must take it like real men. No hysterics. No crying. No begging for mercy. By consensus, it must be all the way in to count. And pumped twenty times.
Bruised and battered, they bask in hard-earned respect.
And improve their standing in the hierarchy.
Two marines effortlessly lift the undersized midshipman.
"Is this going to work?" asks a skeptical PFC.
Manipulated like a marionette, Boyer is positioned astride Russo. Eyes meet and the LCpl smirks in confident superiority. Satisfied with reasonable alignment, the impassive boy is unceremoniously forced down and impaled on the thick pork sausage.
"Oh fuck," he groans.
He is shoved forward against Russo's muscular chest.
The marine's left nipple, a dark-chocolate erect morsel, resides near the midshipman's mouth. Without thought Boyer extends his inquisitive tongue and licks the prominent nib. Wanting more, he parts his lips, suckles, and takes solace from the pacifier.
Another young marine, PFC James Banashefski, has plane-guard duty. He enlisted in the Marine Corps after high school to escape a suffocating existence in an isolated mid-west farming community. Drowning in tedium he craves adventure and new experiences.
A boot, he's never had a piece of midshipman sea-pussy.
But he's heard the stories: truth larded with legends, superstition, and diablerie. The pleasure. The wonder. And how, when properly prepared, it's often better than the real thing. Best yet, inveigling efforts and coercion are completely unnecessary.
Midshipmen, non-rates, and bottom dwellers have a saying: `I love the fucking Navy and the Navy loves fucking me!' It captures the full flavor of the total naval experience. They expect to be screwed, and routinely their expectations are met and often exceeded.
Life is sweet for officers and senior enlisted men; for others, not so much.
Banashefski shudders from the excitement of exploring a new sexual frontier. With sails lofted he strides forward with unbridled appetency. Standing behind Boyer, the marine slowly strokes his impressive kielbasa with both hands... accentuating length and girth.
His perspiring body exudes a deeply evocative woodsy scent. Polo by Ralph Lauren. The alluring fragrance is a carefully constructed blend of masculine notes. Leather. Tobacco. Wood with moss undertones. Just right for a casual evening with shipmates.
The mesmerized audience watches the unfolding spectacle.
It's like Christians and lions. Only better...
... because the carnivores mount their prey before consuming it.
Boyer glances over his shoulder. A marine steps out of the shadows and approaches from astern. Gaining situational awareness way too late, he panics and struggles for freedom; an instinctual reaction for survival and self-preservation. But escape is impossible. Skewed on Russo, he's helpless to prevent the imminent incursion.
"Oh god no," Boyer cries. "Help me!"
"Hey kid SITFU (suck it the fuck up)," advises a PFC.
Marines with soulless eyes imbedded in granite faces laugh at the helpless boy. They are harbingers of death and destruction... not Molly Pitcher at the Battle of Monmouth. Most have never fucked a midshipman with a buddy. They can't wait to take the two-seater for a ride.
Flexing hips, Russo retracts his imbedded shaft a few inches down the taper. The cranberry glove twitches and opens a fraction. Just enough for Banashefski to visually confirm the target. Significant stretching will be required to accommodate both marines. But that's the whole point.
The out-of-commission hole will once again be tight and fully operational.
Steaming in restricted waters with limited navigational aids, Banashefski maintains constant bearing with decreasing range. Poised on the precipice of pleasure, his extended bow approaches the midshipman's stern. Collision is imminent. Sound the alarm.
Boyer is hard aground upon Russo. Red over red. In extremis, with no maneuverability, his hull integrity is imperiled. Damage control systems standby to shore breached bulkheads and dewater internal compartments. Contracting core muscles, he braces for impact.
"Wait one," barks Karp.
Time stops. Russo and Banashefski stand fast.
The staff sergeant does his devoir as the responsible NCO, ensuring Boyer isn't destroyed beyond a reasonable level. A ripped hole too early ruins the fun for everyone. Reaching into his pocket he produces a small amber glass bottle. Amyl nitrite. The vasodilator will facilitate the ride.
Poppers are widespread in the Navy. Drugged sailors offer less resistance during invasive initiations and in tag-team marathons. Cheap and easily acquired in Norfolk's Granby Street sex shops, the chemical compound isn't a UCMJ Article 112 prohibited substance.
UCMJ Art. 112. Wrongful Use or Possession of Controlled Substances:
(a) Any person subject to this chapter who wrongfully uses, possesses, manufactures, distributes, imports into the customs territory of the United States, exports form the United States, or introduces into an installation, vessel, vehicle, or aircraft used by or under the control of the armed forces a substance described in subsection (b) shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.
(b) The substances referred to in subsection (a) are the following: opium, heroin, cocaine, amphetamine, lysergic acid diethylamide, methamphetamine, penecyclidine, barbituric acid, and marijuana, and any compound or derivative of any such substance.
"Inhale deeply," orders the SSgt.
Boyer takes several hits.
He feels an immediate rush of euphoric wooziness. Smooth muscles throughout his body relax. Heat, excitement, and heart rate increase as blood surges through dilated vessels. Dizziness hits. Blood pressure drops and he feels suddenly intoxicated.
Reality blurs. Venturing into uncharted waters, a kaleidoscope of sublime images whirl around his mind. Glimpsing the transcendent he smiles in silent lucidity. And resistance recedes with celerity like the outbound tide at the Bay of Fundy.
He's ready to ride tandem.
"Carry on," orders Karp.
Norfolk has a vast population of young sailors.
The waterfront area, named after the Marquis of Granby, is popular with the servicemen. Sporting countless bars, strip clubs, adult bookstores, movie houses, and tattoo parlors, it is the premier spot for sailors craving lively entertainment.
Alluring entrepreneurial women ply their trade and entertain the men.
While US Code Title 18 Section 1384 delineates regulations for limiting prostitution near military bases, the Navy doesn't have the legal authority to make criminal investigations, searches, seizures, or arrest civilians charged with violations.
The Mayor of Norfolk is a pragmatic man. A retired naval officer, he is sympathetic towards the plight of young sailors far from home. Supporting local businessmen, he permits an unusually high level of impropriety in exchange for generous re-election contributions.
And everyone is happy.
The Navy takes care of its own. Mitigating corrupting influences of intoxication, lewdness, and scurrilous behavior, Military Police and Navy Shore Patrol corral the sailors to Granby. Away from respectable family neighborhoods with impressionable and ovulating daughters.
Sailors patronize the Gaiety. Occupying a prominent place on East Main Street, the landmark burlesque theatre plays to packed houses. Voluptuous stars engage in risqué routines and many fledgling sailors get their first view of female flesh. Private backstage `shows' are also available for an additional fee.
A few blocks away is the Norfolk YMCA.
It provides welcome relief from shipboard rigor and regulations.
Civilian clothes are prohibited aboard ship. Sailors are required to leave base in uniform. Once ashore, they shift into civilian attire at private locker clubs located on Hampton Boulevard and in downtown Norfolk. The YMCA provides storage lockers and showers in communal changing rooms for a fraction of the price of the private clubs.
A social center with opportunities for recreation and adventure, it also rents rooms at affordable rates. Amenities include a library, gymnasium, and basement pool. Nudity is considered natural and wholesome. And bathing suits are strictly forbidden. Unencumbered, the `Y' promotes exhibitionism and voyeurism as sailors enjoy the camaraderie of shipmates.
Architecturally, there is a hint of imperial-era glory. The Roman inspired pool and lounges are decorated with fountains, marble columns, travertine tile, and colorful mosaics of mythological gods.
The YMCA was founded in London England in 1844.
During the Industrial Revolution, the railroad and centralization of commerce brings thousands of rural boys and young men to the city. Searching for employment, living on the streets, moral turpitude ensues. Concerned about squalid living conditions, rampant crime, and moral corruption, Evangelical Christians found the Young Men's Christian Association.
Their mission is to improve the spirit, mind, and body of boys and young men. Putting Christian principles into practice, offering safe accommodations and healthy activities, the YMCA substitutes righteous living for an immoral existence.
By 1854 there are almost four-hundred YMCAs in seven nations.
In America the concept flourishes.
Endorsed by the government, after the Civil War the association provides food, housing, vocational training, and bible study to homeless boys and unemployed young men. By1869 over six-hundred facilities are built in communities across the country.
Exercise and educational classes are popular. Thousands of young men who desire to maintain their physical and mental vigor workout at the `Y'. Coordinating with social welfare agencies, programs are developed to increase the young men's usefulness to the community.
In 1902 Congress authorizes the erection of YMCA facilities at Annapolis, West Point, and in military towns. Twelve years later there are over thirty Armed Service YMCAs housing almost a quarter-of-a-million single military men.
There's a thin line between Christian brotherhood and sexual perversion.
With few women available, it's inevitable that servicemen seek alternative outlets. While the Navy officially bans sodomy, in practice it turns a blind eye. Especially during wars. Providing unique opportunities, the `Y' becomes a favorite destination for homosexuals.
Communal bathrooms located on each floor facilitate cruising. With limited provisions for hanging uniforms, sailors undress in their dormitory rooms. Traversing long hallways with towel in hand or over shoulder, they flaunt their masculinity and advertise assets.
Residents keep their doors open to catch glimpses of the flesh parade.
When a new, attractive, or known submissive sailor catches their eye, predators quickly strip and head for the showers. Striking up conversations, exchanging discreet signals, often it's a successful hunting expedition. And the rooms afford privacy in the pursuit of perverted pleasure.
Catering to the sailors is a passel of teenage boys. The underage employees maintain the facility: cleaning rooms & bathrooms, washing bed linens & towels. Submissive and undersized, the captivating swain have no difficulty soliciting `straight sailors' with effuse declarations of love.
And many sailors maintain boy `Y-wives'.
Word quickly spreads that it's fun to stay at the YMCA!
Moral Crusaders advocate that sex outside of marriage is unacceptable. They attack all aspects of immoral conduct in American society. Especially alarming is the increase of homosexuality in the cities. They also advocate for the eradication of deviants from the military.
In 1919 the Newport, Rhode Island Army & Navy YMCA comes to the attention of Navy Leadership. The facility provides temporary quarters for enlisted men transiting to and from Europe. Creditable information surfaces of sailors engaging in illicit homosexual behavior. Drag shows. Dances. Theatrics. And other degenerate activities are common occurrences.
Declining to investigate, the base commander forwards a report to his superiors.
It's pushed up the chain-of-command as Admirals refuse to pursue the matter.
Protecting sailors from perceived perversions, the Assistant Secretary of The Navy feels morally compelled to authorize an investigation of the Newport facility. A Chief Petty Officer is appointed to investigate the allegations and collect evidence.
With evangelical zeal he recruits a dozen attractive sailors. Possessing the proper disposition, they infiltrate the YMCA and conduct a year-long undercover sting operation. Following direct orders, they befriend residents, initiate, and engage in extensive homosexual activities.
The Navy perspective is that inserters are just men-being-men.
Insertees, however, are degenerates that imperil good order and discipline.
New recruits are targeted. Submissive and still learning the ropes, it is generally believed they are most receptive to sexual solicitations from trusted authoritative sailors.
Documenting sexual debauchery, detailed and graphic reports are deemed unprintable. Shocking verbal testimony is provided by the undercover sailors in closed-door hearings. Immune from prosecution, they vividly describe abhorrent sexual acts with the accused men.
The defendants are physically and legally fucked.
And confined for months without trial or access to counsel.
Naval interrogators pressure the accused for the names of other participants in unnatural activities at the `Y'. Hoping for a lenient sentence, they identify additional inverts.
The evidence is overwhelming. Military tribunals court-martial 17 sailors and all are found guilty of sodomy and scandalous conduct. Receiving a reduction in grade to E-1, loss of pay, and 10 to 15 years confinement, they are remanded to the military prison at Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Maine. A Bad Conduct Discharge (BCD) awaits after time served.
The public learns of the Newport sex scandal.
There is an immediate outcry over the Navy's shocking tactics. Legal scholars argue the investigation was done solely to entrap young men. And the undercover sailors who initiated the deviant behavior were acting under unlawful commands from their superiors.
The New York Times and Providence Journal assert that the Assistant Secretary of the Navy was well-aware of and approved the illegal methods used to trap the servicemen. In 1921 a Senate Committee on Naval Affairs denounce him for his role in the Newport Affair.
He is none other than Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Resigning his post, he never comments on his responsibility in the scandal. Supported by Moral Crusaders, later that year he accepts the Democratic Party's nomination for vice-president.
The YMCA is an institution of profound contradictions.
Believing a spiritual man is a well-built, muscular man proud of his masculinity, it established the nexus between spirituality and sexuality. Although founded on Christian principles to negate deviant behavior, it instead created conditions where homosexuality flourished.
And many sailors discovered a latent affinity for shipmates.
Expectancy floods the compartment.
"Damn it, open up!" Banashefski orders.
Anxiously squirming, barely understanding what's happening, Boyer can't easily accommodate both marines. Russo's thick shaft already occupies most of the available real estate. Taking a deep breath, the midshipman tries to regain his composure.
The PFC applies more Mil-G-23549 all-purpose grease to the problem. Well lubricated, inching relentlessly forward, pressure builds. Straining to gain entrance, testing elastic limits to the ripping point, he is singularly focused on climbing aboard.
"Get in the fucking hole already," demands a spectator.
More pressure.
Another hit of poppers.
A sigh and momentary unclenching.
Thrusting with powerful legs and thighs, the resolute marine lunges and breaches the barrier. Storming the entrance, the first couple of inches are buried inside the convulsing glove. Jousting for position with Russo, he acquires significant territory without compensation.
"Arrghhhhh!" Boyer screams.
Writhing in agony, he is overwhelmed by the combined size. Inconceivable pain rips through his core. Perched upon their combined destructive power, he's being torn asunder... like the tectonic plates grinding, sliding, and ripping California apart.
Riding a two-seater for the first time Banashefski quickly finds his balance. Driving relentlessly forward, spreading and stretching the protesting walls to accommodate the combined girth, he sinks deeper and deeper into the hyper-ventilating midshipman.
"Almost there."
"Oh god... please no more!"
But of course there's more. Solely focused on his own pleasure, working in tandem with Russo, thrusting with brutal coordinated strokes, navigating malleable bends, both weapons are finally embedded to the hilt. And the calescent passageway is better than advertised.
Banashefski grabs the midshipman's shoulders for leverage.
Leaning forward with muscles contracted and nostrils flared, he rotates hips, twists and flexes the shaft, and pounds the hole. Rubbing against the velveteen walls, enjoying undeniable pleasure, he gains insight and understands the universal appeal of academy sea-pussy.
It's a wonderous repetitious pageant of inches dragged out and slammed back in. Rising and pressed back down, the midshipman is a carnival ride at Coney Island. Galloping with heavy exertion up-and-down the poles, the carousel horse whisks the riders round and round.
An old legend says there is a lead horse on every carousel.
It's the biggest, most beautifully decorated... typically a war or military steed. Pole mounted, with all four feet in the air, Boyer is a jumper. Not the herd leader. Carousels symbolize youth and innocence... and Russo cherishes his childhood memories as he fucks Boyer with abandon.
Changing the rhythm, synchronizing diametric movement, the marines enjoy the extra friction of rubbing against each other within the packed hole. Skin on skin. Breathing heavily, sweaty flesh pressed together, groaning in pleasure, desperate for release, they ascend the pinnacle of ecstasy.
Lit by battle lanterns, dozens of marines watch the awe-inspiring performance.
Who doesn't enjoy seeing a midshipman taken for a ride?
Russo strokes Boyer's face and spreads salty tears across his lips. Looking into his eyes, deep pools of liquid submission, he recognizes pain and pleasure. Pressing his lips against the boy's mouth, steeling the breath, he violently rapes the midshipman with his tongue.
Boyer emits an inarticulate rumble from his soul. Penetrated to unfathomable depths, he is acutely aware that he exists solely to service superior men. His inner sanctum is nothing but a receptacle for their masculinity. A vessel to be filled with enlisted seed.
Banashefski's balls rise and tighten in their sack. He's close.
"Oh fuck... I'm going to blow."
Quivering in unison the marines sympathetically detonate and flood the convulsing pussy. The intense blasts are followed by four more as the marines discharged their weapons. Running out of ammunition, the exhausted but exhilarated men reluctantly vacate the distended hole.
"Thanks for sharing the ride with me Russo," said Banashefski.
"Anytime," exchanging congratulatory high-fives.
Quickly maneuvering into position, the next pair slot inside Boyer. Degenerating into a strepitous saturnalia, marines queue up two-by-two for a ride. Double plugged for hours the sea-pussy is irreparably ruined. But not until all-hands get a turn.
Below decks Electrician's Mates repair the ship's electrical distribution system.
Working non-stop, the 8,000 kw 450-volt, 60 Hz 3-phase General Electric turbine generators are inspected, re-started, and phased balanced. Synchronized for parallel operation, they are brought back on line. Controllers shift, tripped breakers re-set, and power is restored.
In the bright lights the marines admire the new split-tail.
And Boyer serves his nation with pride.
Oohrah!
Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, marines, and midshipmen either afloat or ashore, are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com
Additional Navy sea-stories include:
USS Independence CV62:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/uss-independence/
A Brat's Peregrination:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/a-brats-peregrination/