By Ensign James Rozo, USN
“Take it all,” demands the Machinist Mate.
Tilting the sailor’s head back to correct errant alignment, the MM2 navigates the restricted channel. Ramming deeply into the inexperienced throat, effectively corking the airway, the second class petty officer is serenaded with the sweet sound of desperate gagging.
“Oh hell yeah… choke on it.”
And the young sailor complies as tears run down his ruddy face.
Secluded below decks in No. 4 Main Machinery Room (MMR4), 7-119-0-E, machinist mates and boiler technicians are providing Fireman Apprentice Cramer with extra military instruction and feedback on his poor performance, deficient behavior, and surly attitude.
The MM2 throat fucks Cramer. Focused, he confidently skirts the shoals with expert seamanship. A dozen shipmates man the rails. Awaiting a turn, stroking tumid shafts, the enthralled men enjoy watching the subjugation of the inferior male.
“I’m close. Here’s your dinner.”
And he provides a hot nutritious meal.
Having no viable alternative, Cramer swallows the viscous Navy jam. Choking like a novice gulping Jamaican rum for the first time, he hasn’t yet acquired a taste for the delicacy. Fortunately, there are plenty of sailors waiting to help educate his palate.
“I’m next,” announces a BT3.
And he pushes his need between bruised and battered lips.
Raised in Maryland on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay, in the small town of Betterton in Kent County, Andrew Cramer struggles with authority. A skinny little shit with an oversized cock, he proudly brags of his conquests… because that’s what trailer-trash boys do.
Rampant rumors of his endowment spread.
And curious girls are inexorably drawn to him.
Taking advantage of every opportunity to rupture hymen and stretch vaginal canals, the boy brutally fucks them. Every inch. Balls deep. Indiscriminately planting seed to deleterious effect, several get knocked up including the police chief’s 15-year-old daughter.
Facing serious repercussions, he hastily enlists in the Navy to avoid prison. The military has always been society’s convenient repository for immature refractory boys.
In boot camp Cramer discovers there’s very little difference between institutions. Prisoners have some rights – sailors, not as many. Enlistees surrender their civil law rights and voluntarily accept military authority and jurisdiction delineated under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ).
It’s too late; he’s government property now.
The Navy owns his sorry ass for the next five years.
Lacking intelligence to warrant an additional investment in specialized training, he is assigned to the Fleet straight from boot camp. And he reports aboard the aircraft carrier USS Forrestal CV-59, homeported at Naval Operating Base (NOB), Norfolk Virginia.
Old carriers are known dumping grounds for problematic sailors. With large divisions, it’s easy to hide a few under performers. Enlisted Detailers avoid burdening cruisers, destroyers, and frigates, where every billet is critical, with marginally qualified non-rates.
As a Fireman Apprentice, Cramer resides on the bottom of the military food chain. Unencumbered by expectations as a non-rate, he is an essential source of manual labor, performing menial assignments to free up skilled shipmates for more important tasks.
The Chief Engineer assigns him to Repair Division.
Damage Control Work Center, ER04.
Unmotivated, after only a few short months it’s readily apparent that Cramer is not military material. Despite repeated counselling from his Division Officer, Ensign J. Rozo, the sailor’s behavior is prejudicial to good order and discipline. Another shit-bird.
Lacking military temperament, the conspicuous under-achiever is devoid of any redeeming skills or abilities. Recalcitrant and defying authority, he has gone UA more often than anyone in Repair Division. And he quickly earns the nickname ‘rabbit’.
UCMJ Article 86 – Absence Without Leave
Any member of the armed forces who, without authority (1) fails to go to his appointed place of duty at the time prescribed; (2) goes from that place; or (3) absents himself or remains absent from his unit, organization, or place of duty at which he is required to be at the time prescribed; shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.
Unfortunately, he keeps returning to Forrestal.
Usually in handcuffs escorted by military police.
Historically, strict discipline was enforced by flogging or hanging enlisted men from the yardarms. Officers like John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur, and Joshua Barney had reputations that made subordinates tremble. And sailors obeyed regulations or suffered dire consequences.
In today’s gentle Navy not so much.
Destroying years of tradition amid the political agonies of the Vietnam War, Admiral Zumwalt Jr., the 19th CNO, reformed personnel policies. In a misguided effort to improve enlisted life, he ushered in a lenient, pot-smoking, beard wearing, sloppy, undisciplined Navy.
Old sea dogs, disgusted with the state of their beloved Navy, retired.
Cramer cannot conform despite relaxed regulations.
Basic military standards remain beyond reach. Awarded NJP on numerous occasions, all efforts to improve his performance and attitude have been ineffectual. Even brig time with bread-and-water rations have failed to provide discernable improvements.
Ensign Rozo has spoken to afloat JAG about him many times.
Essentially, they require commission of a serious crime – arson, desertion, espionage, extortion, murder, rape, homosexuality, or destruction of military property – to convene a Special Court-Martial and award a prison sentence with a bad conduct discharge.
Lesser UCMJ violations are considered rectifiable disciplinary issues. Transgressions like absence without leave, disrespect toward a superior commissioned officer, and failure to obey orders only earn a sailor NJP, brig time, extra duty, reduction in rate, and forfeiture of pay.
It’s time for a different approach.
Closed-door counseling; aka a brutal ass beating.
An effective leadership tool, it’s often a vital part of a poor performing sailor’s education. Hoping to refocus and square-away the wayward sailor, Ensign Rozo speaks with MMCM Abraham, the Master Chief Machinist Mate in charge of 4MMR.
The secluded machinery room is the perfect location for an uninterrupted performance feedback session. Authorized to provide the lesson, the pit snipes will ensure Cramer understands the fundamental relationship between actions and consequences.
And beatings will continue until his attitude and performance improve.
No one likes rabbits.
Ensign Rozo is ordered to see the Executive Officer (XO).
Not unexpected but certainly unwelcomed.
The young officer reported aboard Forrestal nine months ago.
Commissioned via Cornell University NROTC, he graduated summa cum laude in mechanical engineering – specializing in fluid mechanics and turbomachinery. Assigned to Engineering as Repair Division Officer, he owns 110 sailors – Hull Maintenance Technicians (HT).
Named for James V. Forrestal, the first Secretary of Defense, the 59,600-ton aircraft carrier built in Newport News, Virginia was commissioned in October 1955. The first supercarrier designed after WWII, she is the lead ship of her class, followed by Saratoga, Ranger and Independence.
Her underway complement consist of 552 officers and 4,988 enlisted men.
As the second highest ranking officer, the XO is responsible for planning and executing all shipboard evolutions. Working through subordinate Department Heads, he has final say on the assignment of personnel, training, material readiness, cleanliness, and habitability issues.
Crew morale, welfare, and discipline too.
The ship’s internal police force, the Master-at-Arms, maintain order. When underway, a Naval Investigative Service (NIS) Special Agent is also aboard. Working together, reporting directly to the XO, they investigate crimes and help JAG prosecute sailors.
Ordering investigations, unilaterally dismissing cases or forwarding recommendations for non-judicial punishment or court-martial to the Commanding Officer for adjudication, the XO wields tremendous power to deleteriously impact and terminate careers.
Rozo approaches the XO’s office, 2-135-4-L.
Standing in the passageway, he takes a deep measured breath. Collecting thoughts, he’s rehearsed various scenarios and strategies in his head for the past thirty minutes. Unable to delay reporting any further, he knocks on the non-water-tight door.
“Enter.”
And he steps inside the lion’s den.
Captain Dougherty’s office is appropriately sumptuous.
A magnificent mahogany desk with carved nautical motif dominates the compartment. A plush brown leather sofa, exquisite coffee table with inlayed mariner’s star of cherry, ebony, and sapele veneers, and two sturdy captain’s chairs are meticulously positioned.
Decorated with aircraft memorabilia, squadron plaques, and VF-22 ‘Fighting Redcocks’ paraphernalia, it’s clear he’s a brown-shoe. F-4 fighter pilot. His strict adherence to naval regulations and take-no-prisoners philosophy make him a formidable force.
All hands are well advised to never cross swords with the XO.
“Sir, reporting as ordered,” standing at attention with elevated heart rate.
“Ah, yes Ensign Rozo. I’ve received an incident report involving one of your sailors. Apparently while performing extra duty in 4 MMR FA Cramer was beaten and greased.”
“Yes sir. Most unfortunate.”
“Hmm. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you Ensign?”
Silence fills the compartment.
Having substantial equity invested in the endeavor, needing to sidestep shifting layers of truth, Ensign Rozo starts to perspire, suffusing the space with the enticing scent of British Sterling cologne, a rich and complex earthy fragrance.
He mentally reviews recent events.
– – – – – Flashback 48 hours – – – – –
“Mission accomplished,” MMCM Abraham reports.
The Machinist Mate Master Chief hands Rozo two-dozen black and white Polaroid photographs. A member of the sea’s oldest fraternity, chiefs are the vital link between wardroom and mess decks… turning officers’ decisions, tactics, and strategies into actions.
The Ensign admires the photographs like devotional images in a prayer book.
“Excellent Master Chief. Tell me the details.”
“The little dirt-bag was initially uncooperative. Resisted as expected. But nothing my men couldn’t easily handle. During a short scuffle they physically beat him and knocked him out. After that, it was easy to strip and secure him on the lower level.”
Polaroids show the naked sailor draped over a section of main propulsion line shafting. Wrists and ankles are bound to deck-plate foundations. Positioned between the main thrust and first spherical journal bearing, he’s on public display like a sculpture in a modern art gallery.
Mustered around the exhibition, excited sailors discuss the evening’s itinerary.
Waking, Cramer slowly regains situational awareness.
He’s in deep shit. And knows it.
A picture shows cock and ball bag perfectly framed between skinny legs. The sailor looks eerily like Isaac ready for sacrifice on Mount Moriah. MMCM Abraham looks up heavenly, almost expectantly. But an angel of the lord doesn’t appear.
No salvation for Cramer tonight.
The picture’s subtle gradation of light and shadow is reminiscent of the fine art photography taken by professional war photojournalist. A dramatic visual feast, the bound boy’s soft white skin and the hard machinery-gray steel shaft symbolize the enslavement of man to technology.
During WW II the Naval Aviation Photographic Unit, under the command of Captain Steichen, future Director of Photography at the NY Museum of Modern Art, took thousands of candid pictures detailing the daily lives of sailors aboard combatants in the Pacific.
The US Office of War Information sanitized the often homoerotic images for domestic consumption, providing photos to newspapers and magazines, rallying support for the war effort.
United by a common purpose, men at sea develop strong bonds forged in the crucible of shared misery. The photographers captured these bonds: the masculinity and vulnerability, the camaraderie and interdependence, the intimacy and emotional attachments, and the brief moments of boys at innocent play between horrific battles, blinding terror, and gory death.
The pictures of Cramer are not suitable for the cover of Life Magazine.
Naked, bound, and boned sailors are too much for delicate female sensibilities.
“Excellent use of the shafting, Master Chief. I admire your artistry.”
“Thanks sir. The shafting has seen service before.”
“Oh?”
“Sure. Whenever airmen foolishly enter 4MMR without permission. Last deployment we enjoyed showing some boys the golden rivet.”
The traditional myth, that every Navy ship is built containing a single commemorative golden rivet joining main keel sections, is perpetuated by seasoned sailors at the expense of the gullible. A relatively harmless initiation rite, new airmen are encouraged to search for the rivet down in the many machinery rooms, pump rooms, and shaft alleys.
Out at sea, with few constructive outlets, the boredom is overpowering, and boys being naturally curious, explore and wander, often at great peril into unauthorized spaces. Even though the carrier consists of 3,000+ compartments, most sailors never see more than 5% of the vessel.
Although celebrated for effective teamwork, aboard carriers where surface warfare and air warfare communities coexist in close quarters, there’s a shocking amount of competition and territorial predation.
There are borders, imaginary lines with dire consequences.
It’s nothing personal, just black-shoes and brown-shoes competing for dominance, marking and protecting their turf. And who doesn’t enjoy initiating young and inexperienced sailors? It’s all harmless fun… just boys being boys.
“We showed them the golden rivet alright.”
Engineering propulsion rooms, radiating seductive rumbles and vibrations throughout the hull, sing an enchanting Siren song that can’t be denied. Opening a mysterious second deck Ellison Door, breaking the pressure boundary, leaving the world of light, descending five decks below the waterline, spellbound airmen are lured into the ship’s dark and dangerous bowels.
“Of course, they got more than they bargained for,” jokes the Master Chief.
“I’m sure they did.”
“Damn brown-shoes can’t violate engineering spaces without consequences.”
Pit snipes are the rulers of the underworld.
Like the mythological winged maidens that doomed Greek sailors, they lurk in the shadows and easily ensnare their prey. Demanding tribute, airmen are ritualistically initiated and force-fed black-shoe cock as tight virgin orifices, both fore and aft, are sampled and seeded.
Afterwards, the inseminated are unceremoniously dumped on the mess decks. A similar fate with unavoidable repercussions awaits any engineer misfortunate enough to be apprehended above decks in squadron spaces or upon the flight deck.
“I’m sure the airmen have a new-found respect for engineering.”
“Our goal is to always provide a memorable experience.”
“Damn brown-shoes think ship’s force exists to cater to their needs. Fuck them.”
“Exactly sir. Undoubtedly, a few will stray down into 4MMR on our upcoming deployment. If you’re interested in sampling some airman sea-pussy, just let me know.”
“Thanks, but I’m not without available resources.” Smiling, the officer thinks about the cornucopia of delightful submissive enlisted boys in his division. Inevitably, he’ll also enjoy some prime midshipmen tail. Nothing better than Annapolis sea-pussy.
Rozo never actively participates in questionable undertakings with unknown sailors. Too many with dubious motives would relish the opportunity to blackmail an officer with UCMJ Article 133 proceedings in return for special considerations.
UCMJ Article. 133. Conduct Unbecoming an Officer and a Gentleman
1. Any commissioned officer, cadet, or midshipman who is convicted of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.
Activities that garner a sailor a simple reprimand often result in a courts-martial and disgrace for an officer. Held to a higher standard, officers have been removed for unprofessional behavior contrary to good order and discipline, allegations of sexual harassment, maintaining overly familiar relationships with enlisted members, or demonstrating a lack of judgment.
“I understand sir. You’re always welcome down in 4MMR.”
“Thank you, your thoughtfulness is appreciated. I must admit, I do enjoy watching.”
Possessing a mild paraphilia, Rozo often pursues opportunities to document traditions, customs, and ceremonies… collecting images that question conventional boundaries. Irresistibly entertaining, it’s a delightful diversion from the mundane at-sea routine.
And seeing the shocked, humiliated, tear filled enlisted faces never gets old.
“Yes sir, any time.”
The Master Chief, well attuned to scuttlebutt, knows that Ensign Rozo is a front-runner with connections to department heads. Battling the vicissitudes of nautical life, powerful alliances and interpersonal politics are paramount for a successful tour.
It’s all about political capital accumulated, expended, protected, or wasted.
In the next polaroid several sailors, with cocks hanging out of their coveralls, are playfully standing in front of Cramer contemplating his torment. Utterly vulnerable, his expression is one of despair… all hope consumed in the flames of understanding.
Slapping his face with tumid shafts, the eager sailors are enjoying the sanctioned assignment. Cramer not quite as much. Transcending typical hazing initiations, authorized by a commissioned officer with few limitations, the rabbit is counselled with impunity.
Conveying the message that unreliable sailors are a detriment to Engineering, the snipes relentlessly educate Cramer’s worthless ass. Employing sections of cut and frayed fire hose and a hardwood paddle, they ensure the beneficial lesson resonates.
The next compelling photograph has slightly sadistic overtones.
Finding inspiration, a sailor applies vise-grips to Cramer’s balls. The locking pliers, with a curved jaw and hardened steel teeth, are designed to provide maximum locking force for a variety of material shapes. A hex key adjusting screw tightens to apply precision pressure.
“Excellent use for vise-grips.”
“Yes… the right tool for the job.”
“A practical and efficient application of force.”
Confronted by the inherent eroticism of the image, there’s no denying the unbridled aggression and unparalleled ingenuity of sailors. Vigilantly standing the watch, intelligently pursuing mission objectives, the American sailor is the finest in the world.
“Of course, some snipes have unpredictable vicious streaks. So I closely monitored the situation to ensure they didn’t inflict any permanent damage.”
“Well, that would have been most unfortunate,” said the Ensign, getting semi-erect thinking about the prospect of a bruised or better yet… a shattered testicle.
After all the time and energy he has expended upon Cramer – the hundreds of hours wasted counseling, documenting UCMJ infractions, and attending captain’s masts, the dark truth is he can’t help but desire some small measure of retribution.
And one insignificant enlisted orb is a small price to pay for inconveniencing an officer.
“Sometimes, however, collateral damage is unavoidable,” grinning impishly. “Besides, his COSAL allowance is two, so he has a spare should one be destroyed.”
“Yes sir… that’s true,” laughs the Master Chief.
A sailor is aggressively feeding Cramer in the next picture.
Grinning with delight, intoxicated with the power of supremacy, grasping Cramer’s ears, he violently thrusts inside the rabbit’s protesting throat. Laughing in the background, several shipmates watch attentively and await their turn inside the communal conduit.
“Any difficulty transforming the dirt-bag into a cocksucker, Master Chief?”
“No, not really. No fight left in him after the beatings.”
The next picture shows a sailor unloading a sizable portion of decadence into Cramer. An explosion of flavors resonate on the rabbit’s tongue – rich creamy white chocolate custard with understated vanilla and caramel notes. Sweet. Salty. Delicious.
Having no choice, he swallows repeatedly to get it all down.
“Look at him chow-down on the porridge!” exclaims an MMFN.
While Cramer reluctantly sucks his white shipmates, it takes significantly more persuasion to open his mouth for the black ones. Another racist southern boy. Initially uncooperative, his attitude changes after several twists of the vise-grip’s adjusting screw.
He’s a slow learner but not completely stupid. He knows they wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to bust his balls. To stop the increasing pressure, he’s forced to beg for some black cock to suck.
Conceptually, being a cocksucker is tragic for the straight sailor. An abhorrent deed, sucking black cock is an especially sickening enterprise. Thankfully, Cramer consoles himself, his family and friends will never know of this shameful debasement.
“I called over to 2MMR and treated a few black sailors to his mouth.”
MMCM Abraham grins impishly, having amassed political capital at Cramer’s expense. Delighting in actively supporting the Navy’s EEO Policy, committed to the strategic human capital imperative, he ensures Cramer is an equal opportunity cocksucker.
Exceptionally poignant, the next few photographs capture the quintessential essence of man qua man: domination and submission, strong and weak, predator and prey.
A black MM2 strides forward, grins, and slaps Cramer’s face with his magnificent cock. Disgusted yet simultaneously fascinated, striking fear and dread in the rabbit’s soul, the menacing oversized tool commands immediate respect and attention.
Like a coiled cobra, the lethal cock is poised to strike.
Obscenely stretching Cramer’s lips, the massive pacifier is crammed inside Cramer’s small white mouth, occupying all available real estate. The juxtaposition of color and texture is vividly striking – the swollen pink lips embracing the demanding dark-chocolate cock.
“Take it all, cocksucker,” demands the MM2.”
Defeated, eyes distant and unfocused, resigned to his fate, Cramer surrenders.
Punching in and out of Cramer’s inexperienced and convulsing throat, the MM2’s large balls swell… eager to deliver their scalding custard.
“I’m close… here’s your dinner,” as the sailor feeds Cramer a hot meal.
Cameras flash, capturing the moment for posterity… the humiliation and shame clearly discernible on his face. Although psychologically scarred for life, Cramer will never forget the amazing tang of black jam – the molten decadence of rich dark chocolate, cinnamon, vanilla, and exotic spices.
“I think he acquired a taste for jam,” laughs the master chief.
“I always suspected the dirt-bag was a cocksucker,” said Rozo. “I greatly appreciate your efforts to expand his culinary horizons and educate his palate.”
The evening progresses and Cramer explores a world of sophisticated flavors. Like sampling exquisite deserts from a fine Parisian patisserie, he’s treated to an unparalleled assortment of delightful custards – rich and velvety, savory and spicy, refreshing and heavenly.
After several hours of delicious indulgence, the evening’s grand finally is at hand. Word quickly spreads via 26MC squawk boxes. Sailors descend upon 4MMR from other machinery rooms.
“Get the gun,” orders a senior BT1.
Rummaging in the tool locker, a sailor quickly retrieves it and several cartridges.
The Lincoln lever-action grease gun is designed for rough treatment with a cast iron pump head, precision fit plunger, and extra heavy follower spring. With a working pressure of 10,000 psi, 16-ounce grease cartridges, and a 18-inch flexible hose extension, it’s the right tool for delivering precision lubrication.
A scrum of sailors maneuver for unobstructed views of Cramer’s doomed ass. Anticipating the glorious devastation, the predators perverse fantasies move inevitably closer to fruition.
“This is so awesome,” said a BT3, exchanging wolfish grins with shipmates.
“I can’t believe they let us do this,” cries a hyper-excited young sailor.
Glancing behind and shuddering in fear, Cramer is consumed with dread. Victim of unfortunate circumstances, the bound sailor is utterly helpless to alter his fate.
“Ok, dirt-bag, open up that hole,” as the BT1 positions the gun.
Manipulating Cramer’s sphincter like a zerk fitting on a mechanical system, the grease gun’s flexible hose tip is firmly inserted. Embedded, the hose extension slowly snakes deeper, twisting and bending, descending inch by inch inside the miserable sailor.
“Look at him take it,” said an amazed BT3.
“Just another 10 inches to go.”
Groaning incoherently, mostly undecipherable vowels, Cramer feels the hose advancing through the serpentine passageway, navigating the sigmoid and descending colon.
The enthralled audience, stroking painfully hard erections, watch with fascination as the hose traverses the meandering chute, until with one final twist and push, wedged impossibly deep, it reach the final destination after a long tortuous journey.
“Damn, he took it all!” announces an amazed sailor.
Cameras flash as elated sailors congratulate the BT1.
Rubbing Cramer’s abdomen, a BT3 can feel the protruding metal braided flex-hose. Looking at the rabbit, he delights in seeing the range of emotions playing over the miserable kid’s face. In the plaintive eyes he finds shock, despair, and hopelessness.
“Awesome. You know everyone wants a turn greasing you, right?”
Traumatized, Cramer remains stoically silent… experiencing the overwhelming nausea of humiliation and shame. Stripped of his dignity, his asshole fully accessible for everyone’s pleasure, the devastated sailor mentally retreats inward as the last vestiges of hope evaporate.
“Definitely sucks to be you,” laughs the BT3.
Poseidon determine the evening’s order. Tossing dice several times, a lucky winner emerges – a young and enthusiastic BTFN. Approaching Cramer and gun with purpose, he sports a monstrous grin and erection.
“Here we go,” as he grasps the lever.
Relishing the violation, the sailors dance with jubilant abandonment.
“How much grease did he take, Master Chief?” asks Ensign Rozo.
“Well sir, more than I initially planned. After we started, everyone wanted a turn pumping the gun. In the end, two 16 oz. cartridges were emptied up inside the kid.”
“Nice… fully filled. He’ll be leaking for weeks.”
“Definitely,” replies the Master Chief. “I’ve see kids struggle for control of their bowels even after repeated cleanings.”
Unfortunately for Cramer, the water insoluble grease loges in countless intestinal crevices and hollows, making removal impossible. The imbedded lubrication, in conjunction with the stretched and ruined sphincter, will force the humiliated sailor to wear a diaper.
“It’s an effective reminder of the consequences of his poor performance,” beams the delighted Ensign.
The last picture, using strong chiaroscuro lighting, is a masterpiece worthy of inclusion in the National Archives in Greenbelt Maryland. Functioning predominantly as the passive visual object, Cramer is hanging up-side-down from the upper deck plates between the boilers.
With arms tied behind his back and legs spread wide, black grease is slowly oozing out of his battered asshole. A dozen grinning sailors basking in delight, one holding the grease gun and empty cartridges, all with spent flaccid cocks hanging out of their coveralls, surround the well-lubricated rabbit.
With predators and prey on parade, the seductive image provides erotic pleasure in the viewing.
“Excellent job, Master Chief. Please convey an appreciative bravo-zulu to your men. I’ll keep the last picture and these,” as the Ensign, captivated by the decadent images, sorts through the stack and selects several hauntingly beautiful compositions of Cramer sucking black cock.
“I’m sending these to his mother in Maryland. You can distribute the rest to the crew.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
– – – – – Return To The Present – – – – –
The XO’s cabin fills with the Ensign’s cologne, an intoxicating blend of bright citrus, warm woods, amber, and lush moss, as beads of sweat drips down his back. Glancing around the compartment, Rozo notices several pictures of airmen engaged in initiation ceremonies.
Is the XO is a traditionalist? Rozo decides to gamble.
“Um… no, XO. I don’t know anything about the unfortunate event.” The Ensign’s performance is convincing and the word of a commissioned officer is never questioned.
“Very well,” acknowledges the XO.
“Disrespectful, insubordinate, and incapable of following orders, Cramer’s been to Mast for countless Article 89, 91 and 92 infractions, sir,” the Ensign hastily adds.
Paging through the boy’s service record, the XO notes the numerous entries documenting the sailor’s unsuitability for continued military service.
“Another chronic misfit. More trouble than he’s worth,” the XO pronounces.
“Exactly, sir.”
“I understand Cramer is UA again. If he misses ship’s movement next week, we’ll declare him a deserter and disown him. If he returns, he’ll be immediately remanded to the brig until a court martial can be convened and a BCD issued.”
“Yes, sir,” responds the Ensign.
Outwardly, Rozo is wearing a stoic expression hewn from Vermont granite. Inwardly, however, he’s shouting for joy. Good riddance Cramer! Inundated with administrative requirements and collateral duties, it’s one less dirt-bag wasting his valuable time.
“I suppose a brief inquiry is necessary. I’m assigning you the task, Ensign. Coordinate with the Chief Engineer, interview 4MMR personnel, and have a report on my desk in three days.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“We can’t have sailors taking discipline into their own hands. Even if the recipient is a dirt-bag. Still, it would be tragic if any good, hardworking, and dedicated sailors were found culpable and their careers deleteriously affected. I don’t want that to happen.”
Taking off his glasses, the XO looks sternly at Rozo.
“Am I being clear, Ensign?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Very well. Dismissed.”
Thinking his plan worked brilliantly, Rozo is relieved and rather pleased with himself. As he egresses the compartment the XO delivers a shock, “oh… and Ensign, good job getting rid of the dirt-bag. Next time, however, use a little more finesse and a little less grease.”
Instinctively he knows the Ensign authorized Cramer’s greasing.
“I’m keeping my eye on you Rozo.”
Swallowing hard the Ensign responds, “yes sir,” and quickly departs.
In the Navy, rank is everything. And life as the ship’s Executive Officer is exceptionally sweet; for an Ensign, sometimes not quite as much.
And for a greased rabbit, it totally sucks.
FTN. Fuck the Navy.
Sick of military bullshit, Cramer decides he’s leaving for good.
Going ashore without permission utilizing a duplicate liberty card, he debarks Forrestal with a duffel bag containing all his possessions. Walking gingerly down the enlisted brow and negotiating the long pier, the greased rabbit deserts his ship, Navy, and Nation.
Needing to get off base ASAP, he hails a cab near the Fleet Recreation Center.
“Where you headed, son?” asks the cab driver.
“North. Do you know where I can hitch a ride?”
“Yeah, I know just the place.”
The cabbie is a retired Navy Senior Chief. Twenty-two years. Working with thousands of sailors at shore and sea going commands, he’s a good judge of men and situations. Distressed and carrying a full seabag, it’s obvious the kid is deserting the Navy.
Sitting gingerly inside the cab, looking out the window, Cramer sees dozens of warships – compelling instruments of American diplomacy. Hundreds of motivated sailors, like worker-ants in a rainforest, scurry around consumed with mission and purpose.
Bound in servitude, they are the physical property of the Navy.
Driving down Decatur Avenue, crossing Gate 1, they depart the base.
Heading south on Admiral Taussing Boulevard, merging with the Hampton Roads Beltway, the driver looks in the rearview mirror and smiles at Cramer. A fortuitous opportunity, he will deliver the little sailor to his best friend, ex-shipmate, and now trucker. Splitter.
Shipmates aboard several combatants homeported in Pearl Harbor, the two men enjoyed amazing port calls during WESTPAC deployments. Frequenting bars catering to sailors with unconventional predilections, for two dollars they indulge every conceivable perversion.
Exploring a world of wonders, they sample Filipino and Thai boys.
The boys are managed by entrepreneurial older brothers, uncles, and other purveyors of young flesh. Laboring in an industry that values youth above all else, the glabrous kids are a perishable commodity with an expiration date stamped on their asses.
Draped in youthful perfection, flashing smiles and advertising availability, boys compete for American sailors and dollars. Dancing seductively, accentuating assets, they provide alluring entertainment and the promise of exceptional companionship.
Aroused by unhealthy urges, committing unspeakable acts of depravity, the sailors aggressively utilize the subservient boys… stuffing and inseminating every orifice.
Earning the fearsome nickname ‘splitter’, many overly ambitious boys are damaged by the well-endowed sailor. It’s an acceptable cost of doing business. The local economy desperately craves American currency: politicians, bar owners, and boys. And everyone benefits. Local medical personnel too… providing emergency suturing.
And there’s always a fresh crop of boys when the Fleet pull inport.
“It’ll be okay son,” the cab driver lies, knowing the sailor is fucked.
Miserable and alone, Cramer reflects on the tragic path his life has taken. Closing his eyes, deep in silent thought, memories flood back: boot camp, reporting aboard Forrestal, life in Repair Division, misadventures with shipmates and the authorities.
Taking the Lake Wright Golf Course exit, the cab turns onto Route 13, travels a few miles, and stops at Big Charlie’s Truck Plaza on Northampton Blvd in Virginia Beach.
“Go inside and ask for Splitter. Tell him TJ sent you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good ride.”
Exiting the cab, drawing immediate attention, the nervous sailor is quickly surrounded by a mob of intimidating truckers and other apex predators. Hoping to hitch a ride home to Maryland and his mother, he mumbles a few insignificant words.
Several truckers exchange wide grins.
A large brutish man, 6 foot 4 with piercing steel-gray eyes embedded in a weathered face scrutinizes the diminutive sailor. During his naval career he developed a taste for sailor sea-pussy. Readily available for the taking, it must be experienced to be fully appreciated.
Tattooed on his arm is the traditional CPO emblem.
A gold anchor, emblematic of constancy of purpose amidst the storms of life, is fouled by a length of chain symbolic of life forged day-by-day with honor, morality, and virtue. The silver letters ‘USN’, symbolizing unity, service, and navigation, are superimposed on the anchor’s shank. Two inverted five-point silver stars cap the stock, indicating the rate of Master Chief Petty Officer.
“Come with me, boy.” Rubbing his constricted tumid shaft, he take charge and shepherds the passive sailor towards an impressive 18-wheeler.
The surrounding truckers smile. They know Splitter’s intentions for the unsuspecting sailor. Embarking upon a glorious adventure, they know their friend will subjugate and breed the little sailor… freely indulging his perverse sexual fetishes.
“Get in kid,” he orders in a tone demanding compliance.
Driving a Peterbilt 352 Pacemaker 84 inch flat top sleeper with a 3406 Caterpillar 400 hp engine, the large man now hauls loads for Old Dominion Freight Line up and down the East Coast.
Heading north on Route 13, traversing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, 120 miles up the Delmarva Peninsula near Salisbury MD, Splitter pulls over at rest stop. Operated by the Delaware Highway Commission, it has parking, restrooms, and vending machines.
It’s lunch time.
And scrumptious sea-pussy is on the menu.
Easily overpowered, the defenseless sailor is stripped.
Inspecting the sailor’s ass, he’s impressed with the beautiful stigmata – stunning striations of crimson, carmine, and burnt sienna. The canvas, a hypnotic harmony of wonder pulsating with the immediacy of life, reminds him of a French impressionist sunset painting.
“Please… don’t do this.”
“Quiet boy. You’re my property now.”
Spreading Cramer apart, the sublimely gorgeous bluish-purple asshole is gapped open. No longer watertight, grease slowly oozes out of the compromised aperture.
“Look at that… fully greased and ready to go!”
Inserting several thick digits inside the well prepared chute, he recognizes the lubricant: black MIL-G-23549 all-purpose machinery grease. An experienced seadog, he’s participated in and supervised the greasing of many sailors and midshipmen over the years.
Many great memories. Few things build teamwork and unit cohesion like the greasing of a midshipman. Especially an Academy boy. Pumping the gun with pride, filling and packing all the available real estate, everyone enjoys providing them with a Fleet education.
“I bet this pretty little pussy craves Navy cock. Don’t worry, Splitter will take care of you,” as his calloused fingers explore and widen the restricted passageway.
“Please… I’m not gay,” Cramer desperately explains. “It was an incident aboard ship. In the machinery room. I’m not sea-pussy. I don’t take it up the ass.”
During his stint aboard Forrestal Cramer observed the subjugation of non-rates and a 4/c midshipman. Alpha-males delight in showing-off for appreciative shipmates, brutally thrusting inside orifices. And they leave a wake of decimated and distraught pussy-boys.
“That’s nonsense… of course you do.”
At sea, sexual interactions take many forms. Contextual instead of universal, gender identification is fluid, defined more by desire than biology. A cute little slip of a sailor like Cramer is a natural target.
It’s nothing personal. Sailors fuck. Others get fucked.
It’s the law of the sea.
Splitter exercises his right as a retired master chief petty officer. Lifting the protesting boy upon his lap, he positions the large flared cockhead on the defenseless hole. Raised a good Catholic, he was taught it’s a sin to waste properly prepared pussy.
Facing forward, unable to see behind, Cramer feels his traitorous sphincter voluntarily opening to accommodate the beer-can thick invader. Understanding the shattering implications, he knows the violation of his inner sanctum invalidates his last tenuous claim on masculinity.
It’s the ultimate disgrace… to be used like a bitch by another male.
Sailors have a saying, ‘I love the fucking Navy and the Navy loves fucking me!’ It captures the full flavor of the total naval experience. The life of a United States sailor isn’t for the faint hearted.
“Please don’t fuck me,” the sailor begs.
With his fate hanging in the balance, Cramer perspires profusely and exudes pheromones and the alluring scent of Old Spice Cologne. Rich and classic, the timeless fragrance, a perennial favorite among sailors, is a blend of bright citrus, warm flowers, rich vanilla, and cedar wood.
Taking a deep breath, Splitter relishes the intoxicating perfume.
And his rampantly expectant erection grows even harder.
“Struggle if you want boy. Just more pleasure for me.”
For Splitter the ultimate pleasure resides in conquering a straight sailor, shattering his confidence, obliterating his pride, domesticating his spirit, and stealing his masculinity.
The air is charged with expectancy as the trucker’s blood engorged cock presses insistently against the pussy lips. Demanding admission, slapping the side of Cramer’s head, grasping the dazed sailor by the hips, he violently slams the hapless rabbit down.
Without requesting permission to come aboard, he punches through the overwhelmed ring with extraordinary celerity, followed by several thick inches of retired navy cock.
“Oh god… noooooo,” Cramer screams.
Stunned by the violent breaching, the sailor blacks-out from the intense pain.
Providing no time for acclimation, navigating twists and bends, the cock traverses the miserable sailor’s channel, until with one final push it reaches its final destination. Fully embedded, two-blocked and prevented from proceeding any deeper, he packs the grease up inside the overstuffed chute.
“Fuck yeah!” the trucker shouts.
Lost in blissful pleasure, enjoying undeniable perfection, it’s a fine Navy day for Splitter.
For Cramer, not so much.
Intoxicated with the power of supremacy, sodomizing the unconscious sailor, punching in and out of the sea-pussy, the trucker bounces the boy up-and-down like a child on carnival ride. Sighing contently, it’s been way too long since he last shafted a little sea urchin.
Cramer slowly regains situational awareness. Impaled and flailing about, he tries to extract himself from the trucker’s carousel pony. Unsuccessful, only sinking inexorably deeper, the devastated sailor surrenders, relinquishes his masculinity, and accepts his fate.
The Peterbilt commences its journey and rumbles north towards Dover. Deliberately hitting potholes, the trucker enjoys the extra tight squeeze the boy’s sphincter involuntarily provides as the rig vibrates. The helpless sailor bounces up and down, his head shaking port to starboard.
“Oh yeah, ride that cock.”
Groaning incoherently, mostly undecipherable vowels, Cramer feels the massive cock savagely punch his stomach and rearrange internal organs. Repeatedly pummeled, he’s being ripping a new one.
“You know kid, the Navy will come looking for you in Maryland. After we drop this load in Dover, its best if you ride with me down to Jacksonville,” advises the trucker.
Once a service member is declared a deserter, notification is forwarded to the next of kin, the deserter’s hometown police, and other law enforcement agencies. With nationwide identification practices, deserters are quickly caught, returned to the Navy, prosecuted, and convicted.
Remanded to the Norfolk Navy Brig for years, he’ll be abused by Marine Corps guards. Ferocious predators, devil dogs have a well-earned reputation for dispensing justice. Looking the other way, leadership doesn’t cares about the gang rape of worthless rabbits.
The other alternative is to stay with the trucker. Become his bitch. More than likely get passed around to his friends. Used by demanding alpha males, riding big rigs up-and-down the east coast until he’s ruined. Then dumped by the side of the road… discarded like trash.
“Don’t worry, you can earn your keep with your sweet pussy.”
Shocked by the inevitable journey to the seventh circle’s inner ring, joining other sodomites for eternity, Cramer cries, knowing he has to choose between two equally abhorrent evils. Either way, the sailor is fucked. Retreating inward, the last vestiges of hope evaporates.
In the Navy freewill is illusionary.
The life of a sailor is a brutal deterministic journey…
… often ending with a ruined sphincter and eternal damnation.
Comments and readers’ experiences with sailors, shipboard or ashore, are always of interest.
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