By Ensign James Rozo, USN
Although sailors and marines develop strong physical and psychological bonds at sea, with few exceptions, they would violently object to the insinuation that they are homosexuals. The military ethos compels them to always assist shipmates in times of need…and the need is never greater then when underway – a very lonely and depressing enterprise.
It’s only natural, therefore, that solace is found in a shipmate’s mouth or in sea-pussy. This is not to suggest that the preponderance of sailors don’t also have satisfying relationships with wives, girlfriends, trollops, and small barnyard animals. They do.
At sea, however, there is nothing quite like tender young midshipman sea-pussy. Unequivocally, the Naval Academy produces the most amazing product – the result of a highly competitive selection process, intensive training, and 135 years of tradition. Idealistic and motivated, bursting with potential, they are a welcomed addition aboard every ship in the fleet.
22 0300Z Jun79, 35-52-12 N, 74-34-33 W
USS Independence, underway for the last two weeks, is steering 175 degrees, making 22 knots with sea state condition 2, visibility 9 miles. Steaming in the Virginia Capes Operating Area, she is conducting combat readiness training with several guided missile cruisers and destroyers.
The ship’s 1MC general announcing system comes alive and the boatswain’s mate passes the word for taps: ‘Taps, taps, lights out, the smoking lamp is out, all hands turn into their own racks, now taps’.
In his stateroom, 3-126-4-L, Ensign Rozo, Engineering Department Repair Division Officer, envisions HT3 Troy Walker’s enticing enlisted ass as masturbatory fodder. Fixated, he imagines plowing the painfully cute farm boy’s field and planting seed.
Stroking the thick eight-inch tumid shaft, getting close, there is an unexpected knock on the stateroom’s non-water-tight door. Annoyed at being disturbed, the Ensign is surprised to find young Midshipman 3/c Matthew Boyer draped in tattered underpants and the pungent stench of despair.
“Oh sir, they initiated me,” cries the traumatized boy.
“Wait, slow down…who initiated you?”
“The Marines.”
Tears from large graphite-gray eyes stream down the distraught boy’s ruddy cheeks. His symmetrical androgynous face, framed by close-cropped hair, is streaked with black – the remnants of letters written with a grease pencil. His smooth hairless body, firm pectorals with hard nipples, exceptional washboard abdominals, narrow waist, and generous ass momentarily distract the Ensign.
“It’s ok Boyer, all 3/c midshipmen get initiated during summer cruise…it’s a right-of-passage.”
“But sir, they tricked me…they took advantage of me, used me. It was so humiliating.”
“I understand,” he consoles the midshipman.
Embarked aboard Independence, the 50-man Marine Detachment (MarDet), administratively assigned to the Weapons Department, is commanded by Captain Faulkner, USMC. The marines provide quick-response security, perform sentry duty for special weapons, operate the ship’s brig, raise and lower the national colors, and execute honors and ceremonies for visiting dignitaries.
Ferocious predators, the devil dogs also frequently sexually abuse midshipmen.
Exercising leadership, taking charge of the situation, the Ensign removes the last scraps of the submissive midshipman’s tattered underpants.
“Bend over Boyer.”
The recipient of a significant beating, the exquisite ass is a stunning palette of vibrant tones – striations of crimson, carmine, and burnt sienna.
Spreading him apart, the bruised and battered asshole, showing signs of intensive use, coated with grease, is gapped open. Like a little mouth wearing lipstick, the plum colored pussy lips quiver as white chunks of enlisted jam slowly ooze out, trickle over the scrotum’s seam, and run down his smooth thighs.
Pushing several thick calloused fingers easily inside, rubbing around the chute’s silky smooth walls, the Ensign ascertains that the marine’s play toy suffered no permanent damage. Taking advantage of the opportunity, exploring deeper up inside the midshipman, the officer envisions the many excited marines breeding the amazing ass.
“You’re in luck, nothing’s ripped. Now tell me what happened.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bent over, spread open, painfully erect from the Ensign’s manipulations, his ring offering no resistance to the officer’s advances, the ashamed midshipman recounts a woeful tale of circumstances conspiring against him…of betrayal and lost innocence.
– – – – – Earlier That Evening – – – – –
Walking forward on the 2nd deck starboard passageway, past the galley and through the forward mess decks, 2-79-0-L and 2-69-0-l respectively, the midshipman is near the hatch to the third deck MarDet berthing when a devil-dog calls him over using an authoritative tone that expects compliance.
“Hey midshipman…come here. You ever see a special weapon?”
“Special weapon…as in nuclear?” asks the midshipman with wide eyes.
“Shhh, don’t say that word. It’s special…that’s all I can say,” said the marine. “It’s down in the magazine…I can show you if interested. You have a security clearance, right?”
“Oh yeah, definitely…secret.”
Tattooed on the marine’s right forearm, signifying dedication and loyalty to Corps and country, is ‘USMC’ in black block letters, a chained-dog tag, and the motto ‘Semper Fidelis’ – always faithful. Like many marines, personal information – name, country, branch of service, social security number, and religion are tattooed on his torso’s left side – facilitating battlefield body identification if necessary.
“Good. You can’t tell anyone about the weapons you’re going to see.”
“I understand…not a word to anyone,” agrees Boyer, impelled by an adventurous spirit.
Several sailors nearby, overhearing the conversation, exchange wide grins – knowing the predatory marine’s true intentions for the young, unsuspecting, and trusting midshipman. Struggling to appear stoic, the marine is elated at having successfully set up the academy kid. While getting the magazine keys he whispers to the duty sergeant.
“I’ve got one…another midshipman! Let the platoon know.”
“Hell yeah, more sweet midshipman sea-pussy,” replies the sergeant while remotely securing the magazine’s motion detectors and silent intrusion alarm.
“Give me fifteen minutes…then storm the magazine, same scenario as last time.”
Five minutes later the marine and midshipman approach the magazine’s port access trunk and open the high-security lock on the armored ballistic scuttle. Descending a long vertical ladder, they reach the forward universal tie down magazine, 5-49-0-M.
The domain of Weapons Department, G-3 Division, the compartment is where Aviation Ordnancemen assemble bombs and missiles for the Air Wing as prescribed in the daily flight load plan. Enjoying a mutually beneficial arrangement, the AO’s let the Marines utilize the compartment for special training exercises.
Extremely remote and isolated, the weapons magazine is completely disconnected from all activity three decks above. Other than a slight vibration, it’s impossible to differentiate the war ship making 22 knots 65 miles out at sea from a Naval Munitions Command warehouse in Oklahoma.
The midshipman, unable to contain his enthusiasm, unaware of the marines’ machinations, shivers from the anticipation. The confident marine smiles and rubs his rapidly expanding erection.
Entering the magazine, Boyer recognizes many conventional weapons: Harpoon, Maverick, Phoenix, Sea Sparrow, Sidewinder, Standard II, and Tomahawk.
“Wow this is amazing!” exclaims the awestruck midshipman.
“And below this magazine are the bombs, precision-guided munitions, and Joint Direct Attack Munitions (JDAM) guidance kits,” explains the marine.
“Cool. Where are the, you know…the special weapons?”
If observant, the midshipman would have noticed the special weapon struggling to escape the marine’s confining uniform trousers. But he wasn’t…and he didn’t.
“Over there, in specially designed MIL-901 shock hardened aluminum extruded containers,” said the marine, leading Boyer around ordnance and outboard of the 12,000 lb. lower stage weapons elevator.
Suddenly, a cacophony of sound and motion explodes from the starboard access trunk. A platoon of devil-dogs, donned in olive green camouflage utility uniforms with ballistic vests and helmets, charge into the magazine aiming their M-16A2 assault rifles with laser sights at Boyer.
“Freeze! We’re authorized to use deadly force.”
Surrounding Boyer, they throw the shocked boy face down on the deck and kick his arms and legs wide apart, spreading him out like a frog on a high school student’s dissection tray. A marine plants a combat boot on the midshipman’s ass, applies force, and slowly grinds Boyer’s gear onto the deck.
Several very young and excited marines, with twitching trigger fingers, point their rifles at the midshipmen’s head. Boyer, familiar with the rifle from small arms training at the academy, notices the weapon’s selector lever is pointing to ‘semi’.
Petrified, shaking like a leaf in a gully squall, Boyer uncontrollably wets himself…the telltale scent suffusing the compartment. Forgetting to breathe, quickly losing consciousness, his eyes rollup and everything goes dark as time standstills.
“Fuck the kid pissed himself and blacked out,” notes a marine. “Now what?”
While an unexpected snag in the initiation, the conspirators improvise and an alternate plan coalesces. Sometime later, the unconscious midshipman stirs.
The disorientated and now completely naked midshipman is handcuffed and secured to an unpadded aluminum chair. The Emeco 1006 Navy Chair, developed in the 1940s for use on submarines and aircraft carriers, is a bona fide wartime workhorse. With a life expectancy of 150 years, the timeless classic is corrosion-resistant and virtually indestructible.
“Good, the little pussy is finally awake,” as a marine helpfully smacks the midshipman’s face several times to provide focus.
“About time,” adds an annoyed marine.
With arms twisted painfully behind him, ankles pulled back…crossed and tied – spreading his thighs impossibly wide on either side of the chair, Boyer is exposed and utter vulnerable. Immensely embarrassed at being naked and exposed – his gear on display like sausage in a butcher’s shop window, he struggles for clarity, gets his bearings, and regains situational awareness.
The coterie of marines – prolific predators sporting impressive erections and malicious grins, surround Boyer, their gaze wandering, feasting on his body while envisioning the tantalizing possibilities.
Tattooed on Boyer’s left pectoral is the blue and gold Naval Academy coat-of-arms. The seal depicts a hand grasping a trident – representing sea power, a shield bearing an ancient galley ship coming into action, and an open book – representing education. Below the shield flows a banner with the motto ‘ex scientia tridens’ – from knowledge, sea power.
“Why did you break into the magazine?” the platoon leader demands.
“What? I didn’t sir, I was escorted here.” Confused, Boyer searches the surrounding faces for his guide, but can’t find him. “A marine offered to show me the special weapons…I swear.”
“Bullshit! The silent alarms went off and we found you here alone, by yourself,” the marine spits in the midshipman’s face, the truth being inconsequential. “Lying will only make it worse for you! Besides, there are no nuclear weapons in this magazine, only conventional ordnance.”
Special weapons, if they exist aboard ship, would be located in 5-87-0-M, the ultra-secure nuclear weapons magazine. Guarded by armed marines authorized to utilize deadly force, magazine access can only be authorized by the CO, XO, Weapons Officer, or G-3 Division officer utilizing the two-man rule.
“B…but…but…he said he would show me,” stutters the stunned midshipman.
“You’re fucked kid. You’re looking at a courts martial, brig time, and a bad conduct discharge,” informs the marine. “Not to mention the disgrace and shame your family will endure.”
“No, no…please,” cries the devastated midshipman.
Moving closer, the interrogating marine lifts his right foot and places a large black-leather combat boot on the edge of the chair, the steel-toe less than a half inch above Boyer’s helpless testicles. Leaning forward, the boot’s thick rubber sole rotates and contacts the kid’s pink bag.
“I could easily ruin you,” said the platoon leader. “And claim it was accidental collateral damage. I’ve always wanted to pop a midshipman,” the marine lies, psychologically fucking with Boyer, while applying a little pressure to the floppy sack.
“Do it! Do it!” a chorus of devil-dog voices chant, fearful of their own innate vulnerability but deriving tremendous sexual pleasure envisioning the midshipman’s gear being damaged.
“Oh god no, not my balls…please don’t hurt me!” Boyer begs hysterically, his worst nightmare coming true.
As a kid, he remembered being chased through a dense forest by older boys, being caught, stripped, and secured to a tree with rope. Struggling ineffectually, interrogated and slowly tortured, his balls received special attention. Waking up, soaked in sweat, breathing hard, a sticky mess in his shorts, he’s both thankful and disappointed it was only the dream again.
Searching the marines’ faces for compassion but finding none, Boyer is filled with hopelessness. Looming over the midshipman, he recognizes a hunger in their eyes – like predators staring down at prey.
Unexpectedly, Boyer’s traitorous cock starts to elongate, the foreskin retracts, and a small iridescent pearl oozes out of the little mouth and drops onto the marine’s boot. The marines laugh riotously and Boyer’s face burns with a lifetime’s worth of humiliation and shame.
“Look! He’s excited by the thought…he wants to be ruined!” shouts a marine.
“Do it! Do it!” resumes the chorus.
“No, no…I can’t control it! Please don’t hurt me…I’ll do anything you want. Anything…please!” sobs the broken Midshipman, surrendering completely.
“Hmmm…well, perhaps there is another way,” the platoon leader considers, backing off the bag, amused at how easy it is to break the kid. “The punishment will be severe…and you have to do whatever we say, no questions, no hesitation.”
Facing a welter of problems, confused and frightened, unable to effectively navigate unfamiliar seas, Boyer unconditionally surrenders without considering the potential consequences.
“Yes…yes…anything!”
“Very well, we’ll personally deal with you – but there’s no turning back. Even if you beg, the punishment will continue. Do you understand, kid?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you…you won’t be sorry, I promise!” said the relieved midshipman.
“Oh I know we won’t be sorry. But you might be,” snickers a marine just outside the midshipman’s hearing, exchanging secret smiles with his platoon mates.
“Hell yeah, let’s give the kid an experience he’ll remember for the rest of his life!” shouts a marine.
Firmly entrenched in their clutches, the excited predators control the gloriously naked and vulnerable midshipman. A marine extracts a rapidly expanding eight-inch enlisted weapon, its blood engorged claret warhead contrasting starkly against the olive green camouflage trousers.
More zippers open, and soon ten special weapons are on display, armed, and ready for deployment.
Looking around at all the menacing cocks twitching with anticipation, swallowing hard, the defeated midshipman is alarmed but also excited. No stranger to servicing dominate alpha males, Boyer knows he’ll be sucking for hours, consuming vast quantities of enlisted jam.
Momentarily lost in thought, the midshipman is transported back in time to his plebe year at the Naval Academy. Cock sucking at the Academy is a well-established tradition where plebes, residing on the bottom of the food chain, demonstrate respect for upperclassmen.
Possessing exceptional oral ability, the word spreads quickly around Bancroft Hall and his skills are in great demand. Having no choice, educating his palate, Boyer is forced to consume a stunning assortment of rich velvety custards…warm and delicious molten decadence.
Released from the chair, the procession moves forward and the boy is marched through the magazine. Like a Memorial Day Parade, escorted by marines with weapons on display, they reach the review stand – an old discarded dirty mattress on the deck. Positioned near the mattress are several video cameras, one on a tripod.
Pushed down, Boyer easily descends without protest, surrendering to fate. Like a pack of hungry wolves, the marines maneuver for position, surround the baby lamb, and move in for the kill.
Aggressively playing with the midshipman, painfully twisting his nipples, kneading his supple ass, seeking every crevasse, the marines conduct reconnaissance and run roughly callused hands over every inch of his silky smooth skin. Two marines fight over Boyer’s fleshy pink ball bag, roll the tender eggs between their battle-hardened fingers, squeeze, and pull the hapless orbs in different directions.
“You got pretty big balls for a midshipman.”
Pulling and twisting the balls, crushing them slightly in his fist, the marine laughs.
“I’ve got your whole world in the palm of my hand. How much fun would it be to scramble these eggs and waste your gear?” He pulls something out of his pocket – an electrical tie, and cinches it tightly, securing Boyer’s balls at the bottom of the bag.
“You want this, cock sucker?” asks a marine.
Holding Boyer’s head with one hand, he repeatedly slaps the boy’s face with his hefty weapon. Loud smacks reverberate throughout the magazine as the midshipman takes a substantial bitch-slapping.
A marine with a black navy grease pencil, writes ‘cocksucker’ across the midshipman’s forehead. The ubiquitous implement, used for annotating transparent status boards, is made of hardened opaque colored wax for bold markings on a variety of surfaces.
“Ok kid, introduce yourself to your fans,” orders the marine.
Turning Boyer towards a camera, the midshipman is stunned to realize everything is being filmed. Unknown to the boy, the filming of his debasement commenced twenty minutes ago during the interrogation. It’s a USMC film production – starring Boyer.
“Umm…I’m Midshipman 3/c Boyer,” he obediently states with fluttering stomach, quickly looking downward, ashamed.
“No, no…damn it! Full name, place of origin, and institution. Beg for it…and smile at the camera,” demands the marine, smacking Boyer playfully. “Try again.”
“Hi. I’m Midshipman 3/c Matthew Boyer from Clinton New Jersey, attending the US Naval Academy. Although I suck upperclassmen, I really crave Marine Corps cock,” as the broken kid smiles at the camera with tear filled eyes, delivering a credible performance.
“Hmm…that’s better,” said the grinning Latino marine, rubbing his plum-sized leaking head across the midshipman’s voluptuous lips. “You’ve got such a pretty mouth.”
Licking his lips, the sweet salty taste of masculinity resonates on Boyer’s tongue. Riveted to the majestic cock and low hangers full of creamy goodness between the marine’s muscular thighs, his eyes are mesmerized by the seductive and potent gear.
“It’s beautiful,” Boyer whispers.
“Kiss it…show it proper respect.”
Well trained, instinctively obeying the unlawful order, Boyer deftly kisses and licks the shaft – rolling his talented tongue around the spongy cockhead, following the flared contours, caressing the hyper-sensitive gland, savoring the taste, sensing the inherent power.
“That’s it…keep going kid…take it.”
Opening his relatively small mouth, parting the pouty pink lips, the midshipman struggles mightily to accommodate the broad crimson crown.
Rendering unappreciated assistance, the powerful marine helpfully presses forward…aggressively stuffing himself into Boyer’s mouth. Stretching the boy’s jaw impossibly wide, pushing the tongue out of the way, the weapon demands and establishes residence, effectively silencing the midshipman.
“Oh yeah…now suck that cock.”
Compelled, having absolutely no choice, Boyer sucks. Savoring the delicious tang and texture, the intensely flavored leaking juices – creamy sweet cartelization like dulce de leche infused with cinnamon, vanilla, and exotic spices – is a definite delight for the palate.
Watching intently, the audience of elated marines smile mischievously and exchange high-fives as the interim mission objective is achieved…and another cocksucker joins the Fleet.
“Get ready, I’m taking your academy throat.”
Massive and menacing, the marine advance as more thick inches are quartered inside the overstuffed mouth, occupying all available real estate. Following the delineated battle plan, reaching the ultimate target, the crimson warrior is precariously perched on the throat’s precipice.
“Nooo…pleasessss,” Boyer mumbles incomprehensibly.
Without hesitation, firming holding Boyer’s ears, the marine enthusiastically thrusts forward – tunneling down the constricting throat, stuffing the opening like a cork in a wine bottle. Despite indigenous resistance, retreat is not an option, and he finally bottoms out inside Boyer, impaling him.
“Awk…ugh,” the midshipman chokes.
“Oh yeah, choke on it kid,” the marine demands.
Utterly stuffed, Boyer’s convulsing throat squeezes the victor. Pressing against tender membranes and blocking his air intake, throbbing against silky-smooth walls, the marine is clearly protruding in Boyer’s neck. Choking violently, babbling incoherently, producing sweet music for the audience of laughing marines, the midshipman tries to pull back but the Marine holds him securely.
Reaching around, stroking Boyer’s neck up and down, the marine jerks-off in the midshipman’s throat. A nearby video camera captures the bulge and clear outline of the marine’s cock. Other marines, thoroughly entertained, cheer the innovative maneuver, ready their weapons, and wait for a turn to deliver their ordnance on the target.
“Getting close…here it comes.”
The marine clutches the midshipman’s head in a warrior’s death grip as a torrent of enlisted jam suddenly explodes. Boyer, having no choice, consumes the detonation. A few minutes later, breathing hard, totally drained, the marine withdraws his spent weapon, making way for an eager buddy.
“I’m next,” as a marine steps forward, unlocks the safety, takes aim, and launches his weapon. Broken and domesticated, Boyer accepts the abuse in characteristic submissive silence.
“Oh yeah…suck that cock.”
Degenerating into a feeding frenzy, six marines use Boyer in rapid succession. Sore from the constant barrage and battering, the midshipman isn’t sure how many more marines he can effectively service.
“Take my load, cocksucker.”
A marine degrades Boyer by deliberately pulling out of the kid’s mouth and glazing his face like a cinnamon bun with sticky white icing. Chunky white globs of jam slowly roll down his cheeks, across his bruised lips, and fall into his open mouth. Staring at the camera, humiliated, the glazing quickly dries on his face, forming a white crust.
Moving on, several marines focus their attention on Boyer’s irresistible ass. Voracious breeders of midshipmen, they play with the plump inviting cheeks, leaving their mark. Tight and moist midshipman sea-pussy, unequivocally a rare pleasure, is indistinguishable from and often better than the real thing.
“Kid, you have any experience being sea-pussy?”
“No…no sir, ” replies the frightened midshipman.
“Sweet baby Jesus, we have ourselves a virgin!” shouts an excited marine.
Everyone cheers, emitting hoots like randy peacocks, and exchange high-fives, grateful for fate’s generous gift delivered at the peak of perfection. The tender pink hole, the metaphorical nautical holy grail, is tonight’s receptacle for their sacred enlisted seed.
“Don’t worry kid, tonight we’ll rectify all the deficiencies in your education.”
“This is going to be awesome…well, at least for us. For you, not so much.”
Targeting the evening’s primary objective, addressing the matter of lubrication and dilation, two thick fingers apply a thin coating of mil-standard grease on the pristine ring, poking, prodding, forcing the slot open. Employing force, prying the protesting lips open, the marines delight in Boyer’s discomfort.
“Ouch…that hurts,” the midshipman winces as he is aggressively stretched.
The large and intimidating platoon leader, exercising his inherent right as the senior marine at the scene, strokes his tumid cock, anticipating the pleasure of the first fuck. Stripping he shows off his many tattoos and battle scares – vivid evidence of his devotion to America’s defense.
The official emblem of the Marine Corps is tattooed across his back. With wings displayed, an eagle is standing upon a globe intersected by a fouled anchor. Clasped in the eagle’s beak is a ribbon bearing the motto ‘Semper Fidelis’. Iconic, the eagle represents the US, the globe signifies the Corps’ readiness to service worldwide, and the anchor acknowledges service within the Navy.
“Get on your stomach, ass up in the air…I’m going to fuck you like a dog.”
Gaining position between Boyer’s spread legs, grabbing and rotating the midshipman’s generous hips, the marine intuitively calculates the ballistics – bearing and range to target.
Lying submissively, the midshipman is spread open like an obedient bitch awaiting a good fucking. Strategically positioning cameras near the boy’s pussy and face, the marines will capture the exact moment of Boyer’s destruction for posterity and the USMC archives.
With the enlisted weapon positioned against the midshipman’s last line of defense, the excited spectators initiate a countdown. Boyer knows all systems are green to go, that he’ll be brutally mounted in moments…and he’s powerless to prevent it.
“Here it comes…open that pussy,” demands the marine.
Commencing the assault, the marine aggressively thrusts forward. A skilled predator, experienced in fucking midshipmen, he understands the boy doesn’t stand a chance of repelling the invasion.
Under attack, Boyer’s brave pussy lips, like ramparts protecting a medieval town from hordes of marauders, fight valiantly to defend the midshipman’s masculinity. Hopelessly over matched, however, the boy’s entrance is soon violently breached. Defeated, the devastated sphincter struggles to stretch around the wrist-thick angry shaft.
“Ugh…oh god, oh god. It’s too big, take it out, take it out!”
Boyer screams in agony, nearly passing out from the intense pain as the cock take residence up inside him. Stretched unmercifully, he’s convinced the marine is ripping him a new one.
“Awesome pussy…so tight!”
The marine, enjoying the pilfered treasure, ignores Boyer’s panic-stricken pleas, as cameras capture the thrilling moments of conquest. Strong involuntary muscle contractions try desperately but unsuccessfully to expel the massive invader. Undeterred, the Marine focuses on the mission, presses forward with the invasion, and takes another few inches of territory.
“Please…please, take it out!” Boyer begs, writhing with obvious pain.
“Stop your whining…it doesn’t come out until it’s all the way in.”
The incursion continues unabated as the marine penetrates deeper, brutalizing the hyperventilating midshipman. Focused only on his own pleasure, the hapless midshipman’s defenseless pussy is ravaged.
“Oh god…please no more,” sniveling like a little girl.
Gnashing his teeth, Boyer pleads for mercy as the cock snakes deeper, reaches the bend in his intestines, punches his stomach, and is wedged into impossibly tight and isolated quarters. Painfully split open, he can feel the monster rearranging his internal organs.
“Shut up and take it like a sailor,” orders the marine.
“You’re government property…and the Marine Corps owns this ass,” said another marine.
Displaying commendable determination, the intrepid marine continues to explore unmercifully up inside the overwhelmed midshipman. Temporarily stymied by constrictions, running out of habitable real estate, it takes a fearsome lunge to fully entrench the weapon…successfully disappearing completely between the quivering mounds of battered flesh.
“You got it all,” the marine needlessly advertises.
“Ugh,” Boyer grunts incoherently, lost in excruciating pain, his innermost recesses penetrated.
The triumphant marine, buried balls deep, enjoys the exquisitely tight sensation of being fully sheathed inside the midshipman’s clutching receptacle. Establishing a forward presence, Boyer’s inner sanctum is secured for the follow-on wave of marines.
“Fuck…that’s got to hurt,” a marine laughs, taking pictures of Boyer’s contorted face.
“How’s that feel…deep up inside you, kid?”
The platoon, watching in awe, goes wild with excitement, and a loud Ooh-rah! cheer erupts. Mission accomplished! And Boyer’s virginity is the only casualty. Congratulating themselves on another successful midshipman takedown, there’s now one more sea-pussy to service the Fleet.
“Fuck him, fuck him,” the devil’s choir chants.
“Brace yourself boy…the real fun’s about to start.”
Providing no time for acclimation, inspired by his platoon mates’ cheers, the Marine pulls back and plows brutally forward with a vengeance, slicing through the territory like General Sherman’s march through Georgia. Increasing speed, the collision of his hips slamming against the midshipman’s ass reverberates throughout the magazine as the ass is fucked with reckless abandon.
“Uggh!” Boyer cries, the pain washing over him like a tsunami.
“Yeah, awesome pussy!”
The marine pumps with perfect precision, like the well-oiled pistons in the ship’s emergency diesel generators. Feeling an overwhelming sense of power, he slams into the boy, throwing his whole body weight into his thrusts, pounding the entire length without mercy, taking possession of the kid’s masculinity…completing the psychological transformation into sea-pussy.
Helpless and without thought, Boyer spreads his legs, facilitating the penetration like a cheap two-dollar Filipino whore. Penetrated to unfathomable depths, pain and pleasure indistinguishable, Boyer grunts as the marine’s cock expands – growing thicker, longer.
Changing angles, thrusting side to side, the marine searches for maximum pleasure, stretching the chute’s protesting walls. The unhappy pussy lips alternately cave in and suck out, dragged around the massive shaft as the marine brutally hammers him.
“I’m breeding you,” as the marine pummels the boy’s glorious ass.
Boyer, whimpering with each brutal thrust, reluctantly entertains the amused platoon. Breathing faster, lurching forward, holding the boy’s hips, the marine violently inseminates the midshipman, spilling his seed up inside the devastated chute.
“That was amazing. You’re a perfect piece of ass.”
The marine dislodges his spent weapon and a camera zooms in, focuses on the battered and bruised hole, and provides splendid views of puffy red folds leaking chunky white jam. Startled, feeling empty, open, and incomplete, the midshipman looks around at the laughing marines and blushes furiously.
“Wow that’s one well fucked hole,” the marine smirks.
Admiring his handiwork, running a finger around the gapped and distorted ring, the marine grins with the satisfaction of having successfully accomplished the mission. A few feet away other marines roll dice to establish the order of embarkation. Once sorted out, the marines start lining up like cars in a freight train, each eager to deliver their precious cargo.
A heavily muscled young marine lance corporal with a massively thick cock, quickly takes up position, and rubs against Boyer’s quivering hole. Insistent and demanding, the monstrously thick gland breeches the sphincter, and forcefully enters the twitching pussy, impaling the midshipman in one powerful stroke.
“Ugh,” Boyer gasps in pain, passively surrendering to the marine.
“Give it to him,” encourages a marine, “fuck him harder.”
The marine, inexperienced at tapping sea-pussy, oblivious to the pain he is causing Boyer, rocks the midshipman’s ass, persistently punching through the puffy lips. Breeding the kid, he’s inspired by his buddies who cheer and applaud each furious thrust.
“I’ve never fucked a midshipman before. This is pretty good.”
Besides the video cameras, many photographs of the midshipman’s face and ass, stuffed with enlisted cock, are taken.
“Some of these pictures are going to the Naval Academy Superintendent with a thank you note for thoughtfully providing the Fleet with fresh, virgin sea-pussy!” exclaims a marine well trained in proper naval etiquette.
“Oh god no,” Boyer mumbles, but a new cock down his throat makes it unintelligible.
Reality blurs as Boyer, totally possessed, surrenders completely to fate. During the process, pain transforms into pleasure as Boyer ejaculates just from being used by the strong dominate marines.
The breeding continues for several hours until the midshipman’s hole is no longer serviceable. Fortunately, before the festivities conclude, everyone gets at least two turns sodomizing the midshipman, ritualistically bonding through the shared experience. Earning a special place in the annals of Marine Corps lore, never has a midshipman been so thoroughly fucked or ingested so much enlisted jam.
Upon conclusion of the festivities, Boyer is told the unvarnished truth.
“Hey, kid, thanks for a great evening. We all enjoyed initiating you,” said the platoon leader. “It was very entertaining…especially when you saw the M-16s and pissed yourself. And the look of total despair on your face was priceless when you thought your balls were in jeopardy.”
“Wait…what? You mean it was an initiation?” asked the slowly comprehending boy.
“Yeah…pretty cool, right?”
Historically, initiations play an essential role validating membership worthiness in male centric organizations – the boy scouts, high school/ college sports teams, college fraternities, military units, fraternal orders, etc.
“You tricked me, set me up, and turned me into sea-pussy…”
“…it was destiny, kid. No midshipman walks away a virgin after being at sea.”
It’s nothing personal, just marines welcoming a new midshipman to the Fleet. Although a slightly unorthodox initiation, there’s no denying its effectiveness at establishing platoon cohesion. Years in the future, at Marine Corps reunions, the men will reminisce ‘…remember that midshipman, the one in the magazine? Boyer. Man, we really fucked that kid! Ooh-rah!’
“Oh, by the way…when your gaping hole closes next week, come see us in MarDet berthing and we can have more fun…otherwise some of tonight’s pictures might find their way to your parents.”
Shocked and dismayed, clad only in ruined underpants, Boyer is led out of the magazine and dumped unceremoniously on the forward mess decks. Freshly fucked for hours, unable to close fully, the sea-pussy oozes jam down his unsteady legs.
Surrounded by laughing and applauding sailors, he’s completely humiliated.
– – – – – Return to The Present – – – – –
Completing his tale, Boyer looks at Ensign Rozo with sad submissive eyes.
“I thought I was in serious trouble, sir…my naval career threatened, my balls on the verge of ruin. The marines tricked me into accepting their initiation,” Boyer explains.
“What were you feeling during the initiation?”
Confronted by aggressive marines, not fully understanding the tactical situation, it’s only natural that Boyer’s instinctual impulse for self-preservation would result in the reckless consummation of the Faustian Bargain. Now however, with the fog of confusion lifted, realizing he was filmed and servicing a platoon of marines, the midshipman experiences soul-crushing hopelessness and despair.
“It was frightening, humiliating…degrading”
“Understandable, considering the circumstances…”
Listening sympathetically, the officer appreciates Boyer’s fragile emotional condition. Having significant experience counseling many abused sailors, the Ensign recognizes the revealing signs of physiological trauma and conflicted inner feelings.
“But it was also exciting, right? Deep down inside you enjoy being controlled.”
“Umm…well…perhaps…perhaps I did. How did you know, sir?”
“It’s obvious you desire a strong masculine influence in your life…you’re a natural submissive.”
Gaining unexpected insight, the torturous day’s journey results in an epiphany. The fundamental truth, undeniable and powerful, bursts forward as Boyer finally admits to himself what he’s repressed for years – that he’s gay. Although forced to the revelation under less than ideal circumstances, its inevitability was assured…only a matter of time.
“Maybe I was meant to provide service…I don’t know, I’m confused.”
“Perhaps you learned something important about yourself tonight,” suggests the Ensign.
Irrefutably, being control by the marines was tremendously exhilarating. With comforting clarity, Boyer understands that dominant alpha males have an inalienable right to aggressively utilize gay shipmates – consumers and consumed, embarked upon a symbiotic journey.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” said Rozo.
Placing a hand on Boyer’s shoulder, Rozo marches the docile midshipman out of the stateroom, down the passageway, to the officer’s head, and into a shower stall. Holding him firmly from behind, aggressively twisting his nipples, biting his neck, exercising his inherent right to dominate the boy, the officer forcefully thrusts balls-deep inside the midshipman, fucking him like a dog.
Boyer sighs contently, his convulsing chute transformed into sea-pussy as destiny intended.
The Ensign, enjoying the midshipman’s gaped but enthusiastic hole, pounds the sea-pussy and mixes his seed with the Marine Corps’ deposit. Afterwards, before drifting off to a deep and contented sleep, he adds Midshipman 3/c Boyer’s name to the list of Navy approved fully qualified sea-pussies.
Boyer’s fate is sealed – officially designated as sea-pussy.
Word quickly spreads around the ship, and within hours most of the crew knows he’s available for their use – another cock crazed submissive academy midshipman. Finally understanding his true purpose in life, Boyer dedicates himself to providing service to the Fleet.
Make no doubt about it, there is nothing like it, being a well-fucked midshipman on the high seas.
Comments and readers’ experiences with sailors, afloat or ashore, are always of interest.
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