USS Independence CV62
By Ensign James Rozo, USN
Author's Notes. United under a common purpose, sailors develop strong bonds forged in the military crucible of shared misery. Underway for months, a lonely and depressing enterprise, it's only natural that solace is sought and found in a shipmate's mouth or in sea-pussy.
Chapter 11: Nautical Mile
"We are the men and women of the United States Navy, guardians of American sea power and maritime security... a diverse, elite and agile force who aspire to the highest standards of service to our Nation. We are patriots, forged by the Navy's core values of Honor, Courage and Commitment. Our proud heritage, tradition and deep resolve serve as our battle anthem. We will prevail in the face of adversity with strength, determination, and dignity. We are the United States Navy!"
"Let's get the certification started," orders HT1 Jackson.
Paraded through Repair Division's forward berthing compartment, midshipman 3/c Brian Klodaski, naked and baptized, humiliated and devastated, is the evening's entertainment.
With the ceremonial formalities completed the initiation transitions to the next glorious phase. Escorting Klodaski to a thin mattress, pulling him down, the excited sailors eagerly commence his nautical mile certification.
Used in navigation, a nautical mile is a unit of length equivalent to one minute of arc of latitude measured along any meridian, or about one minute of arc of longitude at the equator. By international agreement, it is exactly 1,852 meters, approximately 6,076 feet.
Whisperings of the certification process abound at Annapolis.
When questioned, enormously embarrassed upperclassmen refuse to provide salient details of their experiences. Unfortunately for Klodaski, he's about to learn firsthand that the scuttlebutt isn't just another sea-story fabricated to frighten young midshipmen.
A pack of sailors quickly encircle Klodaski.
Defenseless, he can't deter inquisitive hands from exploring and inspecting his body like a prized farm animal at a 4-H County Fair. Property of the United States Navy, the subjugated midshipman lowers his head in embarrassment, drowns in a sea of despair, and accepts his fate.
"This is awesome," said an excited sailor.
"He's ours to use and no officers around to interfere," sneers a shipmate.
Intoxicated with power, the predators torment the boy. Exercising dominion over the inferior male, the sailors aggressively twist Klodaski's nipples, thump his negligible cock, stretch and pull his insignificant ball bag, and probe his freshly shaved ass.
"Hope you're hungry because cock is on the menu," a sailor fervently announces.
"Please...," Klodaski quietly implores, "I'm not gay."
Responsible for training and qualifying the midshipman, the sailors tremble with excitement envisioning educating the boy's palate - feeding Klodaski delicious, savory, enlisted jam.
"Doesn't matter... we're underway and you're the division's designated duty cocksucker and sea-pussy. Ensign Rozo already authorized it," pronounces Jackson.
"W... what?" the shocked midshipman stutters.
"Besides, we're doing you a huge favor, making sure you get off to a good start on your certification. You'll be way ahead of many midshipmen after tonight."
One deck above, near the starboard entrance to the forward mess deck, 2-49-0-L, posted on the crew's bulletin board, is a list of all 3/c midshipmen aboard Independence. Beside each name is the responsible division, a number, and a ranking. After tonight, many midshipmen will have earned new numbers, moving them inches closer to nautical mile certification.
The HT1 strides forward confidently, his massive blood-engorged ebony cock leading the way. Taking charge and enormous pleasure, he smacks his weapon on Klodaski's face.
Disbelieving his eyes, the midshipman is shocked by the monstrous enlisted appendage. Radiating power, elongating to epic proportions, it commands immediate respect.
"It's huge," whispers the enthralled midshipman.
At the academy approximately 4,000 college boys participate in mandatory sports: NCAA intercollegiate teams, intramural teams, or club sports. And Klodaski has seen thousands of cocks in the locker rooms and showers of the many campus sports facilities. But none rivaling Jackson's behemoth.
"I've never seen one that big."
"Let's hope it isn't too big for your little white mouth."
Stroking the 12-inch long beer-can thick shaft, Jackson ensures it has reached maximum tumescence. A veteran at feeding midshipmen, he knows that perseverance and substantial force will be required to take quarters inside the boy's diminutive mouth.
Unfortunately for Klodaski, none are in short supply.
Positioning the swollen bulbous glans on the terrified boy's lips, the sailor delights in seeing the range of emotions play over Klodaski's face: panic, dread, dismay.
"Bite it and I'll beat the fuck out of you and deep-six your remains."
The sweet intoxicating perfume of fear oozing from the trembling midshipman is palpable. Many sailors take deep breaths, absorbing the powerful pheromones while caressing their leaking erections.
"Show it respect. Kiss it."
The lure is undeniable, and Klodaski understands he must pay homage to the superior male. Surrendering, he leans forward and parts his lips. Shamefully kissing the enormous enlisted plum, Klodaski savors the fruit's distinctive juices. His soft pink lips, contrasting against the deep purple-black produce, barely cover a third of the spongy head.
Consuming the preprandial aperitif, it's time for the main course.
Taking control, holding Klodaski's head securely, Jackson attempts to cram the swollen fruit inside the boy's incredulous mouth. Forcing it open, stretching it wide... wider, almost to the point of inflecting physical damage, the damn thing just won't fit.
Many spectators, reliving their own sordid personal experiences receiving a brutal feeding from Jackson, briefly sympathize with the struggling midshipman. Seasoned petty officers, however, are not persuaded, believing the goal is achievable if only more force is employed. The moment of compassion quickly passes, and everyone vociferously implores the petty officer to continue the assault.
Panic-stricken, Klodaski is convinced it's an impossible task.
"Please... it's too big," implores the desperate boy.
Amused, Jackson smacks the midshipman's face with the massive cock. As the division's apex alpha male and senior petty officer, the first feeding is his inherent right... and he's nothing if not persistent. Maintaining his well-deserved reputation, the dominant predator is also sending a strong message to the division's junior sailors and non-rates.
"You have no choice... now let's try again!"
Forging ahead with ferocious determination, without thought or concern for Klodaski's discomfort, he brutally stretches the mouth and protesting jaw. Properly positioned, the petty officer unmercifully forces himself inside the gaping maw.
Transcending limitations, the midshipman's lips stretch around the amazing crown, until suddenly, with one giant push, it's crammed inside, occupying all available real estate.
Mission accomplished.
"Hell yeah... it's in!"
Impressed, shipmates offer enthusiastic congratulations. Utterly stuffing the midshipman to capacity, the expansive cock is tightly wedged between the tongue and upper palate, compressing the boy's tonsils and uvula... exactly where the gods of Wind and Wave intended.
"Way to go Jackson!" shouts an awestruck sailor.
"Feed him," encourages another shipmate.
Several sailors take pictures, commemorating the accomplishment for posterity.
The juxtaposition of contrasting visual elements is vividly striking: predator and prey joined in time - the protesting pink lips obscenely stretched around the menacing ebony cock.
While some of the pictures will find residence in private collections, many will also be posted on the crew's bulletin board on the forward mess decks. To the great embarrassment and dismay of all the 3/c midshipmen, visual documentation of their certification will be prominently displayed.
Like adolescent boys with baseball player cards, sailors exchange pictures... discussing, debating, and extoll the various merits and skills of each midshipman.
Particularly noteworthy pictures - prized collectables of sweet sea-pussy, ruined and gaped - are often secretly reproduced in the ship's photographic lab, 3-97-0-Q, and distributed for inclusion in crewmembers' private scrapbooks. And often sailors will get the midshipmen to autograph the photo... increasing the boy's humiliation and the picture's value.
Klodaski's face is a priceless portrait of submission.
Having partaken of forbidden fruit, there's no return to innocence. Intuitively, he knows hundreds of sailors will force-feed him over the next six weeks.
Savoring the sensation, rocking his hips slowly but insistently, Jackson tries to stuff more inside the midshipman's mouth. Holding him by the ears, tilting the boy's head back and ensuring proper alignment, pressing forward, the flared glans is perched upon the constricting throat's precipice.
"Ok kid, time to put the ship in dry dock."
Raising the stakes, Jackson forcefully pushes down on the back of the midshipman's head. Increasing the pressure, blocking the airway, he advances deeper inside the protesting conduit.
"Yeah... throat fuck him," an excited shipmate demands.
Enjoying the show, the throng of sailors shout encouragement to Jackson and the struggling midshipman. Running aground, however, the enormous cock is wedged like a cork in a wine bottle, forming an airtight interference fit, preventing forward progress.
The midshipman makes desperate choking sounds that are hard to translate... mostly vowels. With his throat hermetically sealed, suffocating, flailing his arms widely, Klodaski's eyes slowly roll up and he begins to black out.
"Stay with us," Jackson commands, understanding the situation.
While disappointed, he understands it's pointless to destroy the boy's throat on the first day. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Being pragmatic, he pulls back slightly, allowing a gulp of air to reach the oxygen-starved lungs.
Dizzy but regaining situational awareness, blinking his eyes, Klodaski mumbles incoherent words of thanks. In gratitude, the midshipman takes suction, savoring the amazing addictive taste.
"Ah yeah, suck it!
Like a black truffle's magic flavor, exquisitely overripe and earthy, Jackson's cock, succulent and rich, provides sensuous satisfaction. The beefy essence, spiked with the intriguing crackle of tiny grains of salt, is a quality meal - better than anything served on the mess decks.
"I'm going to christen you with fleet jam," Jackson advises.
Jackson shivers, stiffens, and floods the suddenly drowning midshipman. Like the Nile overflowing its banks, the milky river flows uncontrollably, delivering essential nutrients down the boy's throat.
"Swallow, swallow," the enthralled audience rhythmically chants.
Having no choice, Klodaski's throat muscles contract as he consumes the viscous jam. And the river flows unimpeded as the sailors applaud the performance.
"I can't believe he's drinking that shit," said an amazed sailor.
"What a fag," adds a shipmate.
Reluctantly, Jackson begins the extraction process - an only slightly less difficult operation requiring significant dexterity. The deflating cock abruptly pops free as chunks of jam escape, trickle over Klodaski's lips, and dribble down his chin.
Slowly milking the organ, Jackson squeezes every last drop out onto the appreciative midshipman's tongue, ensuring it ends up in the boy's stomach.
"Smile," a sailor commands, taking pictures of Klodaski's face.
"How was he?" a sailor asks Jackson, like an investigative news reporter.
"Not too bad. He'll get better with more practice," Jackson notes.
Undeniably, Klodaski will get plenty of experience sucking: 72,913 inches worth at a minimum - a nautical mile. While the midshipman didn't earn any millage per se sucking Jackson, the boy's oral channel is now dredged, cleared of navigational hazards, and safe for subsequent smaller vessels.
"My turn," advises a Latino sailor, the next senior HT1.
Following military etiquette, respecting the inherent rights of senior petty officers, the sailors queue by rate. Between sailors of the same pay grade, order is determined by length of service. Political capital is also exchanged, debts paid or incurred, as sailors buy or sell positions in the queue.
The division's junior sailors, understanding the law of supply and demand, realizing they won't be sampling the commodity tonight, console themselves by watching the festivities while jerking off.
After several days, once the novelty wears off and petty officers' appetites are satiated, demand will tapper, and the midshipman will be readily available for sailors lower on the food chain.
Traditionally, while senior petty officers break in new 3/c midshipmen, it's the junior sailors that accumulate the most mileage on them. Repeatedly pummeling well-used orifices, certification is only achieved through the efforts of these dedicated young professionals.
"Come on... hurry up, use him already," an impatient shipmate demands.
"Open up cocksucker," the Latino sailor commands, pressing forward.
Getting underway, ringing-up all ahead two-thirds, the sailor shifts colors, and aggressively thrusts forward at 18 knots. Plotting his course, the sailor's smaller tapered cockhead successfully navigates the channel, and finds anchorage in the boy's throat.
"That's it... take it all."
"Yeah, feed the cocksucker," a shipmate barks.
Underway making way, the shaft rapidly disappears inside the throat until two-blocked. With balls pressed against the midshipman's chin, the sailor is prevented from proceeding any deeper. Gagging, the boy's throat violently squeezes and massages the tumescent vessel.
"Oh hell yeah... choke on it."
Suppressing tears, Klodaski complies as sailors laugh.
Sliding in-and-out, the sailor keeps count, adding up the strokes for entry into the midshipman's nautical mile logbook. A running record of every feeding, it contains ruled columns for the providers' name, rate, number of strokes, net stroke length, total distance covered, date, and signature.
Separate sections are maintained for oral and sea-pussy sub-qualifications.
"Keep sucking... I'm almost there," the sailor utters, his voice labored.
In the early days of sailing ships, running records were written on shingles cut from wood logs. Hinged and opened like a book, the operational accounting of the ship was record in the `log book'. Later on, when paper was readily available and bound into books, the record retained its name.
While there are many types of logbooks, all ships in commission are required to keep a daily chronology of events in deck and engineering logs. Not available to the general public, classified or designated `For Official Use Only', the logs are sent to the Naval History and Heritage Command to be kept as permanent records and, eventually, transferred to the National Archives in College Park, MD.
"Ughhhh... here it comes, swallow my jam!"
And the creamy custard coats the convulsing cocksucker's throat.
Withdrawing after feeding Klodaski a hot meal, the spent sailor is quickly replaced by another eager shipmate. The feeding frenzy continues as dozens of sailors, traversing virtually unimpeded down the well-established shipping lane, provide a delightful culinary experience.
Salty, sweet, bitter, and savory - the jams are all uniquely delicious.
Concentrating, immersed in his duties, quaffing the creamy goodness, the surfeited midshipman is exhausted from harvesting the fresh cuisine. Unfortunately, the rapacious sailors aren't losing interest, their enthusiasm unabated as an almost endless supply are queued awaiting a turn.
"Look at his swollen belly... there must be a quart of jam in there," notes a proud sailor, rubbing the humiliated midshipman's descended abdomen, the repository of their generosity.
"He won't have to stand in a chow line for the next six weeks," laughs a shipmate.
The jam, an amalgamation produced by the testes, seminal vesicle, and prostate, contains spermatozoa, calcium, chloride, citrate, fructose, glucose, magnesium, potassium, protein, sodium, and zinc. Better than a multi-vitamin, each sailor provides Klodaski with approximately two teaspoons of delicious nutrition, containing 10 calories of fuel.
Taking control, concerned that the midshipman might regurgitate and waste the exquisite cuisine, HT1 Jackson temporarily secures Klodaski's mouth.
Fortunately, other pristine ports-of-call are available for the crew's enjoyment.
"Okay, it's time. Put him into position," Jackson orders.
"Hell yeah!" sailors cheer.
Emotionally drained, Klodaski offers no resistance as strong calloused hands position him in the desired orientation - on his forearms and knees. With head down, ass up, hips rotated, and knees spread wide, he's open for business like an ice cream shop on a sweltering August day.
"Sea-pussy time!" an excited sailor shouts.
Running around the berthing compartment, informing his shipmates, the sailor broadcasts the news like Paul Revere alerting the colonial militia to the approach of British forces before the battles of Lexington and Concord.
Eagerly anticipated, the change in venue has reenergized the sailors. Quickly mustering around Klodaski, prancing with joy, the sailors celebrate the impending deflowering of the midshipman - a delight, highlight, and milestone in every sailor's tour of duty.
Experienced digits aggressively explore the midshipman's inviting ass, probing between the spread checks, rubbing across the tight ring of puckered flesh. Addressing the matter of lubrication and dilation, a jar lid opens and hilarious laughter erupts as jovial sailors celebrate.
This can't be good, Klodaski thinks to himself.
Turning his head, he notices a large jar of Hellman's Mayonnaise. Procured from the mess decks, the condiment is the perfect accompaniment for sampling midshipman sea-pussy... providing an ideal amount of lubrication and friction for everyone's enjoyment.
A senior HT2 dips several calloused fingers into the jar, finds the midshipman's terrified sphincter, and with practiced efficiency slowly forces it open. Pressing deeper, he stretches the stubborn ring, working the emulsification inside the hapless boy.
"We don't want to ruin you too soon," said the HT2.
"Oh yeah, open that sweet fucking hole!" shouts a sailor.
Enthusiastically endorsing the endeavor, several sailors take pictures of the unblemished flower being aggressively manipulated and opened.
Like a sports announcer, a sailor provides live commentary for shipmates with partly obstructed views. Mortified, Klodaski blushes furiously at the play-by-play reporting. Enjoying the boy's humiliation, the enthralled audience, anticipating a trip up inside the magnificent chute, stroke their painful erections.
"Please," the midshipman begs, "I'll suck cock... but not this."
"Too bad kid," said an unsympathetic sailor with icy indifference.
In a moment of clarity, Klodaski fully understands his dire and hopeless predicament. Sucking some cock is just a harmless initiation, but surrendering his masculinity to enlisted sailors is altogether another matter. Only fags take it up the ass.
Quivering with dread, he's consumed with the horrific knowledge that he's not just going to get fucked... but gang banged with an audience, and is powerless to prevent it.
"P... please... please."
"Sorry kid," as the HT2 adds more mayonnaise to the aperture.
"... but... but why?"
"It's just the traditional certification process," the sailor explains. "Besides, while underway we need some sweet sea-pussy to tap... and you're the designated provider for the next six weeks."
Underway, it's the beautiful confluence of requirements: the crew craving sea-pussy and 3/c midshipmen needing nautical mile certification. Some pairings under heaven and earth are destined - like meat and potatoes, bacon and eggs, enlisted cock and midshipman sea-pussy.
Who can question god's grand design?
"Many midshipmen are starting their qualifications tonight... and you know how important certification is for your career at the academy, " another sailor adds, expounding the unvarnished truth, vitiating Klodaski's resistance.
Experiencing a paradigm shift, the pensive midshipman envisions his classmates pursuing and achieving nautical mile certification... gaining an advantage for choice battalion & regiment billet assignments in the fall.
Competitive, understanding the detrimental impact of returning to the academy without attaining qualification, he reluctantly surrenders, consummates the Faustian Bargain, and embraces the transformational experience.
"Okay, ok... but please be gentle," begs the pragmatic boy.
"Sure kid, whatever," the HT2 responds indulgently.
It's time and everyone knows it.
Taking up station astern Klodaski, the experienced sailor kneels between the midshipman's thighs, rotates the boy's hips, corrects the errant alignment, acquires the target, and rubs his tumescent cockhead against the terrified aperture.
Glancing around nervously, the center of attention, sensing what's about to transpire, Klodaski braces for the inevitable. Fettered to his fate, grasping the irrefutable truth, he understands that by willingly surrendering himself he irrevocably forfeits all claims on masculinity.
A dozen sailors maneuver for unobstructed views, determined to witness the exact moment of ultimate subjugation and emasculation. Several cameras are focused on the midshipman's face - poised to capture the glorious moment - the application of overwhelming force, and the ensuing shock and awe.
"This is going to be awesome. Well, at least for us... for you, not as much."
"Fuck him, fuck him," a choir of voices incessantly chant.
Needing no further encouragement, the sailor grabs the boy's hips and without additional warning or so much as a `request permission to come aboard' transitions abruptly from soothing to brutal. Lunging savagely forward, he storms and breaches the midshipman's fortifications in one powerful stroke.
So much for gentle.
"Uggggghhhhhh!" Klodaski screams, shocked by the sudden explosive agony.
"I'm in," the sailor needlessly announces with a mischievous grin.
Excruciatingly painful, the boy's involuntary muscle contractions attempt to expel the invasive shaft. A hopeless endeavor, the stunned midshipman nearly blacks-out as the aggressive sailor establishes and secures a beachhead.
Klodaski knew it would hurt, but this is impossible.
"Ugh... oh god. It's too big, take it out, take it out!" he frantically implores.
With tears run down his contorted face, he struggles to escape. Held securely, however, retreat is impossible. Conflated voices, some expressing awe but most just laughing at his agony, fill the compartment as cameras flash and cherished memories are captured.
"Please... I don't want to do this," the boy desperately pleads.
"Too late kid... you're fucked."
Pulling back, lunging forward, making headway, the unstoppable cock stretches the chute unmercifully. Relentlessly advancing through unexplored territory, penetrating deeper, the thickening shaft opens the constricted channel like a Russian icebreaker in the Kara Sea.
"Please stop," the suffering boy begs, convinced he's being split open.
"Shut the fuck up already," an unsympathetic sailor demands.
Indifferent to the midshipman's agony, providing no time for acclimation, the sailor leans forward with his full weight as the brutal assault proceeds unabated. Flexing his cock, he explores the serpentine passageway, navigating bends in the protesting colon, rearranging internal organs.
Smirking, putting on a show for his appreciative shipmates, fueled by desire, the sailor pushes insistently deeper until he's two-blocked, fully penetrating Klodaski. Triumphant, he relishes the exquisite sensation of being fully sheathed inside the deflowered midshipman.
"Oh yeah!" the sailor howls. "So fucking tight!"
The jubilant audience, watching in wonderment, mesmerized by the accomplishment, shout their approval and exchange congratulatory high-fives.
"Damn he took it all," exclaims a sailor. "That's got to hurt!"
"Way to go... plow that sea-pussy!" a sailor yells while jerking off.
Brutally stretched and stuffed, Klodaski is overwhelmed by the realization that he's being fucked... and what that means. Emasculated, the shameful thought crosses his mind that his father, a prominent Southern Baptist Minister, would be horrified to see his son transformed into a sodomite.
"Shhh... don't cry baby. Just open that sweet fucking hole."
Pumping with perfect precision, intentionally changing attack angles, thrusting side to side, the sailor searches for maximum pleasure, stretching the chute's protesting walls. The distraught pussy lips alternately cave in and suck out, dragged around the inconsiderate shaft.
Lost in blissful contentment, enjoying undeniable perfection, the sailor experiences a moment of brilliant clarity and understands a fundamental truth: midshipmen are meant to be shafted. There's something inherently humbling about understanding god's grand design.
"You're such a good fuck."
Suddenly, like a high-wattage bulb burning impossibly bright, the vision and understanding blur into whiteness, shatter, and disappear. Descending the rapturous high, regaining situational awareness, the sailor is ready to plant some enlisted seed.
Shivering with excitement, arching his body, stabbing forward, buried balls deep, he explodes inside Klodaski, impregnating the boy with sticky splendor. And five-hundred million energetic sperm, snapping their tails, aggressively compete, desperately searching for an egg to fertilize.
"I'm breeding you... filling you with my jam."
Moments later, extracting the slightly deflated cock, chunks of enlisted jam slowly trickle out of the vacated and stretched sphincter like water from a cheap kitchen sink faucet. Exposed to air, their mission in life unfulfilled, millions of swimmers tragically perish within minutes.
Spreading the midshipman wide open, admiring his handiwork, running a finger around the gapped and distorted ring, the sailor grins with justifiable pride.
Several cameras zooms in and focus on the bruised and battered hole, capturing vivid images of the boy's puffy crimson folds.
"Now that's a fucked hole," said the appeased predator.
Open and empty, Klodaski looks around at the laughing sailors and blushes furiously.
Immediately another sailor, a relatively junior HT3 learning to drive, replaces his shipmate. Since boot camp he's heard numerous sea-stories extolling the virtues of midshipman sea-pussy.
Determined to quench his ravenous hunger tonight, trading places with a senior second class petty officer, moving up twenty spots in the queue, the HT3 incurs a significant future debt to be paid for with a piece of his own ass.
"What are you waiting for?" a sailor demands. "Fuck him already."
Possessed like a Norse berserker, the wild-eyed sailor climbs aboard and positions himself against the midshipman's defenseless gate. Without providing any additional warning, attacking in a nearly uncontrollable trance-like fury, he grabs Klodaski's hips and slams balls deep in one vicious thrust.
"Aggghhh!" Klodaski screams, stunned by the brutality.
"Oh man... this is amazing!" said the sailor, the undeniable reality outstripping expectations.
Unable to resist the onslaught, the vanquished midshipman slowly spreads his legs wider, welcoming the marauder inside the conquered palisade. Fully opened, the initial blinding pain slowly transforms into unexpected pleasure as he lifts his ass up, meeting the sailor's relentless thrusts.
"The fag wants it. Fuck him harder!"
Intoxicated with wonder, pounding persistently with palpable pride, the sailor's pendulous balls violently slap the sea-pussy with the rhythm of a metronome. Grinding his hips, he shafts the whimpering boy with reckless abandon, ensuring Klodaski feels every glorious inch.
"You're such a pussy," he derides the broken boy.
Embracing his new reality, whimpering and moaning, caught between pain and pleasure, committed to the inevitability, the midshipman takes the shafting with equanimity. Paying his dues, Klodaski envisions winning a key leadership position in the battalion.
"I got next," proclaims a slender sailor with a disproportionally long cock.
Eventually the frenzy subsides and settles down into an orderly routine. HT1 Jackson, entrusting his subordinates to carry-on without adult supervision, knowing that the midshipman is firmly entrenched in his shipmate's capable hands, withdraws his leadership and retires to his rack.
Savoring the pleasure, relishing the fabulous feeling of the squeezing chute, intense and relentless, the enthusiastic sailors provide the midshipman with a Fleet education long into the night.
Indulging the sailors' insatiable hunger for sea-pussy, Klodaski valiantly accommodates all the senior petty officers and then some, earning essential mileage and a new appreciation for enlisted cock.
The next morning, inspecting the logbook, Jackson is impressed with the crew's collective accomplishment: 1,954 inches sucking and 1,672 inches up the ass. A good start, the mileage is slightly above the daily average necessary for reaching certification in six weeks.
Ensign Rozo will be pleased with the excellent progress and pictures.
In the Navy, rank is everything.
And life as sailor can be sweet; for a well fucked 3/c midshipman, not as much.
The voyage aboard Independence continues in Chapter 12: Brig Rat.
Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com