Phantom of Aurora

They sat at a table on the terrace overlooking the harbour. It was a perfect West Coast summer night, the sky overhead filled with stars. There was a full moon and a cool breeze blew inland from the Strait of Georgia. The smell of salt, fish, and hemp, the hundreds of smells that mark any port city or town combined to give it a distinctive air, the smell of the sea.

The harbour lights, the lights from the small boats and ocean trawlers anchored in the bay, shimmered and sparkled across the dark waters. In the middle distance the lights of AURORA shone faintly. Above them the red aircraft warning light atop the flag mast flashed on and off.

The sound of a bugle drifted on the light breeze wafting across the harbour and as the last, sad, note of the Last Post reached them, the hundred points of light that marked AURORA began to blink out one by one. The Gunner looked at his watch, looked at the distant lights disappearing, nodded slightly, and returned to his food.

Joel sighed softly. He had not planned to say anything until he left on Sunday but after seeing that look he thought now was as good time as any. "I'm leaving for Seattle," he said bluntly.

The Gunner gave him a quizzical look and placed his fork on the table. "That's pointed, if I may say so," he said quietly. "May I ask when and why?"

Joel looked directly at him. "When is soon?" He pushed his plate away and looked across the table into The Gunner's hazel eyes. "As to the why of it?" He smiled ruefully. "I could lie to you and tell you that it was because my parents are becoming suspicious and it's best if I left town for a while."

"Are they?"

Joel shrugged. "Probably. I am 28 years old, Stevie, which is old for a Chinese male to be unmarried. My brothers are all married and breeding, even Timmy, and he is 23. I cannot use the excuse that my cousin Michael has used for years and say that I am waiting for the right dynastic match. Eventually the right family will come along and before I know it I will be engaged and on my way to the altar!" He grinned self-consciously. "I am a catch, Stevie. I am a scion of a family of Mandarins, aristocrats. My mother is a Chan, sister to Uncle Harry Chan, and auntie to Michael Chan, who is the Viceroy."

"The what?" The Gunner was intrigued and surprised. "I've heard of Uncle Harry Chan, who is dead! I've never heard of Michael Chan. And how is he a 'Viceroy'?"

"Michael Chan is Uncle Henry's eldest son. When the old boy kicked off Michael became the Viceroy of Chinatown," explained Joel. Michael runs the family businesses and that means he runs Chinatown. He is royalty, Stevie. He is the most powerful Chinese from British Columbia to Ontario in the East. His business interests include ties to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and San Francisco. He does not approve of me."

"So, because of your family ties, because of the power your family represents, or has access to, you are on the auction block." The Gunner laughed quietly. He looked Joel up and down. "I can see where you would command a more than decent dowry."

"Please, Stevie, it is not funny!" Joel's face darkened. "You do not know my family and you do not know what could happen to me if my parents ever found out that I am gay. If that happens I am dead." He saw the shocked look on The Gunner's face. "In my culture being gay is an abomination, even more abominable than in yours. A gay son is a terrible shame, a great loss of face. It would not be so bad if it was just my family, but it is worse because a Chinese family is everybody who has any claim to blood relationship. Not only would my father lose face, but all his male relatives would lose face, my brothers, my uncles, my cousins."

The Gunner raised an eyebrow. "Including Michael Chan?"

Joel nodded. "Most definitely Michael Chan! And believe me when I say it, you do not want to be the cause of him losing face. He is very traditional." Joel lapsed into silence. He dared not go any further.

"You could marry," suggested The Gunner softly. "I know men who hide their true selves in marriage. They maintain discreet relationships and nobody is the wiser. It happens all the time."

"It happens because those men are willing to live a lie," responded Joel tartly. "I am not. It happens because those men are willing to sublimate their urges, or confine themselves to what you call a discreet relationship with another man. I cannot do that!"

"Why can't you?"

"Because, Stevie, I love men. I always have. I have been sexually active since I was nine! I was blowing my cousins, and two of my brothers, when I was 12! When I was in high school I sucked or fucked my way through every senior class for three years. The only reason I stopped was because Michael was going to the same school and put a stop to my activities."

"So, Michael knows?"

"Yes, Stevie, he knows." He looked knowingly at The Gunner. "He will never expose me."

"You slept with him," said The Gunner. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Joel smiled, but did not answer. "From high school I graduated to the undergrads at UBC, to the sailors of Wreck Beach and the denizens of the bathhouses of Vancouver. To put my character and conduct in perspective, and in language that even you can understand, I am a slut for cock!"

The Gunner's jaw fell open. It was a long time before he could speak. "Joel, I love you!" he declared.

"No, you do not!" replied Joel with a shake of his head. "You think you do, but you do not! And even if you did love me, I could never love you! Not the way you want to be loved! I could never be faithful to you. I would see a man, a boy, whatever, and if I wanted him I would go after him. You want commitment and I want freedom. I need to get away from you or I will lose that freedom!"

"I have never stopped you from doing anything you wanted to do," protested The Gunner. "Have I ever made any demands on you?"

Joel shook his head. "No, but there is something about you, something that changes the man you are with, something that makes that man want to be as much like you as possible. There is also the fact that while yes, in your own way you are in love with me . . ."

"What do you mean, in my own way?" interrupted The Gunner angrilly, the colour in his face rising.

"Please, let me finish!" Joel gripped the arms of the chair. "It is not that you do not love me, it's that you love something more." He waved his arms toward the few burning lights of AURORA and pointed. "You love that more than me. You love that more than life." The Gunner opened his mouth to speak. Joel motioned him to silence. "I do not mean just that . . . place, over there. I mean the whole ball of wax, the guns, the ships, the uniforms, the flags, the camaraderie, the fucking exclusiveness of the Navy. You would cut off your balls before you would betray something that would, in a New York minute, cut them off for you and feed 'em to the fishes if it knew what you were." He took a deep breath and continued on. "I've seen you," he said with emphasis, "I've seen how you react when the Navy is mentioned. I've seen how your back gets just a little straighter when the band plays Heart of Oak.

"I've seen you get all misty-eyed when you hear the Navy Hymn. I've seen the look of pride and arrogance in your eyes when you see those cadets over there . . ." He thrust his hand toward the lights of AURORA. " . . . Marching and doing what you think is the only thing to do. It's your life but it is not my life, and it never will be." He stood up abruptly. "Let's get out of here. Let's walk."

The Gunner threw some money on the table to pay for the food and followed Joel out of the restaurant. They walked around Harbour Square in silence, then stopped and leaned on the railings overlooking the water. "If I live in fear it's the price I have to pay," began The Gunner. "I have to pay it because the Navy will not change, and I cannot change."

"I know," sighed Joel. "And neither can I." He ran his hand down The Gunner's back. "I know what I am, Stevie, and I admit it. You want a monogamous relationship. You would be faithful to me and I would betray you with the first sexy piece of ass that took my eye." He picked up a pebble lying at his feet and skimmed it along the water. "When you see a sailor walking down street you check him out. So do I, but where I am trying to figure out how to get into the guy's pants, you are checking the press of his trousers, the shine of his shoes, checking whether or not his hair is cut to regulation standards!" He stooped down, looking for another stone to toss. "You're Navy, Stevie. I am not, and I never will be. You love the Navy. I do not. I hate it for what it's doing to you. You deserve better, Stevie." He hugged The Gunner, and then pulled away. "I've thought about us for a long time, and I decided long ago that even if I wanted to be with you I would not. I cannot compete with your damned Navy. If it was another guy I might have a chance, but I cannot compete against the Navy."

"Joel, it's my world. I have lived in it since I was 17."

"It is not my world." Joel smiled sadly. "What you need is someone from your world, someone who loves you and the Navy, someone who thinks and talks and acts like you do. I truly hope you find him."

"I thought I had." The Gunner put his arm around Joel's shoulder. "I cannot talk you out of it?"

"No." Joel shook his head. "I need to get away, Stevie. I have to get away. Seattle is where my work is and I need to be there."

"So, it's over for us?"

"In a way, yes." Joel turned and started to walk towards the Gunner's Land Rover. "We'll still see each other, if you want. I would like to see you because, to be honest, you turn me on. But if I meet someone, or you do, it's over." He waited until The Gunner unlocked the car, and then got in. "Please try to understand, Stevie."

"I understand, Joel," replied The Gunner, turning the key and starting the car. "Maybe not all of it, but enough." He turned the wheel and started for the apartment.

When they arrived Joel pleaded a headache and went to bed. The Gunner sat up, marking test papers. The cadets were examined every day and expected their marks to be posted when they arrived in their classroom the next morning. When he was finished he poured himself a generous glass of red wine. Another difference he thought. He liked the good stuff; Joel had more plebeian tastes, and would have downed a beer.

As he sat and drank The Gunner considered his position and his options. A long time ago, when he was barely 18, freshly graduated from the RCN Recruit School HMCS CORNWALLIS, and struggling with his homosexuality, he had made a terrible mistake. He had fallen in love with the wrong boy. He had compounded his mistake by declaring his love and suffered the consequences. The beating he had received was nothing compared to the feeling of rejection and disgust at what he was, so much so that he deliberately avoided forming close friendships with any of his shipmates.

The Gunner had been terribly hurt in the way that only teenage boys can be hurt and had vowed never to let such a thing happen to him again and for the next four years The Gunner had remained celibate, full of fear that his terrible secret would be discovered. He served in several HMC ships, traveling to foreign ports, always avoiding situations that would in any way compromise him.

All that had changed when The Gunner was drafted to HMS EXCELLENT, the Royal Navy School of Gunnery then established on Whale Island, a convict-built isle in Portsmouth Harbour. There he had met, and been seduced, by his tall, dashing, and extremely handsome Term Lieutenant, who had taught him how to love. The Gunner could have loved his Term Lieutenant, but neither really wanted it. He had left England wiser and no longer ashamed of who or what he was.

For the next few years he had played the Game, pretending to be the straightest thing on two feet. The Gunner dated girls when he had to, he told anti-gay jokes, and never allowed his personal feelings and needs to in any way impact on his life or his career, never condemning, never commenting when a shipmate or a barracks stanchion, with the subtle hints that he had come to recognize so well, showed that he was interested. He avoided entanglements and for the most part confined what little sexual activities he had to civilians he met ashore. When in Vietnam, as a member of the UN Observation Team, he had discovered a small bar frequented by the last remnants of the ANZAC Contingent. Like him, the Aussies and the Kiwis were playing the Game to their mates but in the bar they were themselves. He had also met an American who was stationed at the Embassy. They became fuck buddies, nothing more and nothing less.

In retrospect The Gunner thought that Joel was only doing what he himself had done, although Joel did not have the same restrictions, nor the worry of possible discovery that every gay male in the military had and, at the end of the day, Joel was only doing with men what so many of The Gunner's shipmates were doing with women. The sexes might be different but the principle was the same: getting laid. The Gunner had served with men whose first thought the moment the gangway was down was to get ashore, get a drink, and get laid. He knew men who had been laid in every port they ever visited, men whose prowess was legendary. He knew men who boasted that they had never paid for it in their lives, relying on the fact that in every port there were women, some professionals, many not, all of whom loved a sailor. What was it the old song said? Ah, yes. "All the nice girls love a sailor, all the nice girls love a tar, for there's something about a sailor, and you know what sailors are."

The Gunner snorted and laughed quietly. Nice girls, bad girls, it made no difference to a sailor, who was basically a man in a funny suit with a hardon. His messmates bragged of their conquests and the Navy, being the Navy and wise to the ways of sailors, neither encouraged nor discouraged the men. The powers that were recognized that man was essentially polygamous, and prone to taking advantage of any situation that would allow him to couple with any female willing to lie down and spread her legs. The Navy was worried about disease however, and the matelots were constantly bombarded with films and lectures about the diseases that could be contracted if a man failed to protect himself. The Navy was not at all concerned about the health of the young women who gave themselves so freely. It was concerned about the health of its sailors, so much so that in the drawer of every Quartermaster's desk in every ship there were foil packets of condoms, free for the taking. Contracting a venereal disease was a serious, chargeable offence, a self-inflicted wound, and grounds for a court martial.

The Gunner returned to his small kitchen, switching to rum. He drank slowly. Joel was a normal, unexceptional male who satisfied his needs where and when he needed. Unlike the friends of The Gunner however, he had no wife, no partner, to go home to, which the married ones always did. They went home to wives or sweethearts who either did not know, or chose not to know, what their husbands and lovers were doing in foreign climes. They loved their men, would stand by them, and so long as they came home to them what they did when away was never questioned. Joel was a creature who craved men, many men, and he would never change. The Gunner did not flatter himself that he could ever change Joel, just as Joel could never change him. But, was that a good reason to simply give up, give up the happiness they had had together? To give up the happiness they could have together? Joel had admitted that their sex life, at least, was wonderful.

The more he thought the more The Gunner was determined to do whatever it took to keep Joel with him. He would make no demands and if all Joel wanted was sex, then he would have it. The Gunner had decided he would be waiting when Joel came home. No matter how many men he slept with, no matter how many dicks Joel sucked, The Gunner would be waiting. "I understand where he is coming from," he thought. "I cannot change and he cannot change me, but if he thinks I just going to roll over and forget about him, he has got another think coming. If I go down, I go down with Battle Ensigns flying and all guns firing."

Joel lay in bed staring into the blackness and listening to The Gunner as he moved about in the kitchen. He heard the sliding door to the lanai open, and then close. He sighed heavily for he knew exactly what Stevie was doing. Stevie was rationalizing and plotting to keep him. Again Joel sighed. Why could the man not understand that their affair was over? It had never been anything but an affair and now Joel wanted out! He understood all too well what it was that The Gunner wanted. He wanted a lover, a partner, a mate and Joel was none of those. He was not prepared to be something he did not want to be.

Pounding the mattress in frustration, Joel growled his mild disgust. Damn the man! Why could he not understand that there were men out there who had no intention of nesting, of setting up housekeeping or being domesticated? He liked trolling Wreck Beach and ogling the smooth, young bodies on display. He adored wandering the narrow, murky passageways of the bathhouses, peering into the small rooms at the hard-bodied men who wanted one thing and one thing only, to fuck and be fucked. They did not want to be made love to. And neither did Joel.

And why could neither Stevie, nor Michael before him, understand that?

Joel smiled grimly. It was no wonder that neither Stevie nor Michael would understand. They were both honourable men, conservative men who insisted on living in a straight world, who lived ordered, disciplined lives. They were men who never allowed public displays of affection, men who demanded discretion in all things, men who would never be caught dead lying naked on any beach, nor wandering the corridors of some grotty bathhouse. They were men who never fucked. They made love. Joel snorted in disgust at the thought. Instead of being repressed, unsatisfied and unhappy both Michael and The Gunner could have been the happiest faggots in the world. They did not have to go looking, to troll the beach or haunt the out of the way hiking paths of Stanley Park. Both men had an ample supply of luscious, willing young men if only either of them would bother to look!

And such men! Joel almost salivated at the thought of the young men Michael could take advantage of. The troglodyte Tsangs had been dismissed and exiled to their hovels and chickens even before Uncle Henry's oversize casket had been lowered into his tomb. In their place was a small army of handsome, slim, wasp-waisted young men, some imported from Hong Kong, others from the UK and America. Thinking of the young men who now guarded the Viceroy of Chinatown, Joel he slipped his hands down the front of his underpants and fondled the spongy head of his penis. Not one of those young men would ever find his way into Michael's bed, for Michael was a honourable man.

The Gunner was as bad as Michael. He was assigned to something called the Small Boats Unit, and seconded to the Sea Cadets as a Gunnery Instructor. In the former he trained Naval Reservists, lithe, strong young men. In the latter he trained Sea Cadets. There were 18 Naval Reserve Divisions scattered across the Dominion of Canada and every summer upwards of 1,500 virile men, most of them in their late teens and early twenties, were rotated through CFB Esquimalt for training, young men at the height of their beauty and sexuality, away from home and parental control, living in a world of men where any lingering doubts about their sexuality, or fantasies, could be dispelled or fulfilled, living in a world of men where booze was cheap and inhibitions quickly lost. Joel would have jumped the bones of any one of them at the least provocation.

Equally delicious were the cadets. Not the younger boys, the 13, 14, 15 and 16-year-olds, who were secure in their innocence, but the older boys, the 17, 18, and 19-year-olds who filled out their uniforms, their tight, bell-bottom uniforms that showed off their round, firm butts and well packed baskets. Joel moaned with desire and his hand slipped lower, his fingers finding, and rimming, his puckered anus.

Here was The Gunner with 20 young men, handsome, prone to hero worship and he does nothing! And why? Why because it would compromise his integrity! It would destroy the trust placed in him by his superiors. He had a duty to perform! Joel rolled his eyes and concentrated on pleasuring himself. Let Michael and Stevie keep their honour. He would enjoy life and to hell with them both.

Joel was so engrossed in what he was doing he did not hear The Gunner come into the room.

He walked into the bedroom. Joel was lying on his side, facing away from him. He got into the bed, lying as close as he could to Joel, moulding his body to his. He reached over and put his hand down the front of Joel's briefs, fondling his genitals and chuckling softly at his tumescence. "Been having a little fun?" he asked.

Joel rolled over to face The Gunner, their foreheads touching. "I had to do something seeing as you were busy in the other room sulking," he complained. He could feel The Gunner's hand squeezing his balls and his dick started to throb with desire. He grinned wickedly and said, "You just cannot help yourself, can you?" He put his hand into the fly of The Gunner's boxers and squeezed his hard penis, rubbing his thumb along the curving glans.

The Gunner groaned and kissed the back of Joel's neck. "That feels good. Can we keep on doing it?" He sat up abruptly and began to slowly pull down Joel's briefs. "I need you, Joel, just as much as you need me."

Joel ignored The Gunner's comment. "I'm still leaving in the morning," he warned. "And I am still going to Seattle. Nothing is going to change, Stevie." God did he want to get laid. He raised his hips, allowing The Gunner to pull his briefs off his body. His hard penis, rosy red above the deep brown circumcision ring, bounced slightly and then flopped against his stomach. He pulled his legs back and spread them. "Tonight, though, I want you in me!"

"I'm not giving up on you," growled The Gunner. He bent down and his tongue traced the throbbing vein than ran along the underside of Joel's penis. "We can work this out."

Joel groaned softly as The Gunner's tongue ran along the spongy head of his hard penis. He wanted to stop but could not. His mind reeled with conflicting emotions. He wanted The Gunner. He cared for The Gunner. But he could not live with The Gunner. He reached down and pushed his erection forward, presenting it to his lover. Joel gasped as The Gunner's mouth engulfed his turgid organ. "Make me cum, Stevie," he whispered harshly. "Then fuck me! FUCK me hard!"

The Gunner, lost in desire and lust, failed to recognize Joel's words.

The Phantom awoke shortly after one o'clock in the morning. He yawned, stretched, and then reached down to scratch himself. "Hell and sheeit," he thought, as he felt his dick and balls hanging out of his boxers, "I hope nobody came in to check on me." He got out of bed and stripped off the boxers. It was time to go visiting.

He began his meticulous preparations. First he showered, using an unscented soap. His father, who had served in the Airborne and never let anyone forget it, had told him that a good soldier never used after-shave, or perfumed soap. One who did usually ended up dead. The enemy could smell him coming a mile away.

The Phantom gave himself a quick jerk in the shower. He noticed that he did not cum as much as he had earlier. Good. He wanted to go in with empty balls. By jerking off now he would be able to visit three, perhaps four, boys before his balls ached for release.

After cumming he rinsed himself off in clear water, dried his body with a fresh towel and began dressing. Sam's father had taught both Sam and he the art of camouflage. Never, he had said, wear anything that will draw the game's attention to you. Dress for the terrain, move slowly, and you brought home a buck. Fuck around, don't pay attention to the little details, and you eat beans. The Phantom checked the clothing he would wear. Every item had been laundered in clear, warm water. All he could smell was clean.

First came the plain, navy blue briefs with no visible waistband. Next, a black tee, then black socks. The Phantom slipped on a pair of black chinos and a long sleeved cotton shirt, dark navy, and then pulled on black leather hiking boots. The rest of his gear, a black ski mask and gloves, were in the saddlebag on his bike. Then he sat at his desk and relaxed, reading through a small pile of notes and papers he kept in the top drawer.

Sam's father had said that to catch a monkey you had to learn all about him, where he lived, where he slept, what he ate, where and when he shit. It was easy to hunt for a monkey. It was a hell of a lot harder to catch one.

The Phantom had learned all about the particular habits of one species of monkey, Sea Cadets. They were, first and foremost, creatures of habit and routine. Their lives were ruled by Navy time, Navy tradition, their days divided into Watches. He had been around long enough to know that in their tightly structured lives they all had to be at a certain place, at a certain time, every day, in class, on duty or in their racks. There were variables, to be sure, but he had prepared for these as well.

He first considered getting onto Heron Spit, which was relatively easy. The causeway was raised a few feet above the high tide marker, and there were clumps of sea grass all along the roadway, which made for good cover from Comox Road all the way down to the Mess Hall.

The first hurdle to be overcome was the Duty Watch in the Guardhouse, which was located directly opposite the Mess Hall. Knowing who were the Officer of the Day, the Duty Petty Officer, and the Roundsmen on duty was important. Some duty personnel were by the book, or "Pusser". They patrolled at random intervals, never to a pattern, every hour on the hour, in accordance with Standing Orders. A Pusser Duty Officer stayed in the Guardhouse, or patrolled with the Duty Petty Officer. He was supposed to make rounds at least once during his watch, and could do so at any time. There was a small sleeping room off the main room of the Guardhouse and a by the book officer never slept in it. A keen Petty Officer made sure that the Duty Quartermaster and the Boatswain's Mate were up and awake.

Then there were the slackers. They made rounds once, usually at the beginning of the Watch, getting it over with. The slack Duty officer slept in his private room for most of the Watch. The Duty Watchmen would play cards, doze, or read, just passing time with as little effort as possible until it was time to shake their relief.

Knowing who was on duty was one of the easiest things in the world to find out. Each day the Ship's Office published Routine Orders which, amongst other things, detailed who was on watch and when. The Phantom picked up today's Routine Orders and saw that Little Big Man was the Duty Petty Officer. Not good, but not bad either. He was fairly predictable in that he could be counted on to do a good, thorough inspection. He could also be counted on to do it at the beginning of the Watch. The Phantom also considered the events earlier in the day. Little Big Man would be paying particular attention to the Twins, who were on Defaulters and confined to barracks. He smiled slowly. Little Big Man would be sniffing around the Staff Barracks most of his Watch, which was fine by The Phantom. He had no intention of going anywhere near the Gunroom.

Consulting Routine Orders again The Phantom saw that the Duty Officer was Sub-Lieutenant Kyle St. Vincent, a good kid, but an unknown since this would be his first time as Officer of the Day and a variable that had to be considered. The other Watchkeepers were a mixed bag of Sea Puppies and seasoned cadets. He read the names and decided that he would have to be careful tonight. The seasoned cadets were supposed to train the Sea Puppies and although they usually kept to a pattern, starting with the Cooks Barracks, the closest to the Guardhouse, then on to the Band barracks, then the others until all eight barracks blocks had been inspected, he could never be sure.

Timing had to be considered. The Watch closed up at 2345. Around 0030, after reading any special orders, talking shop, and taking a piss or a dump, they would start their routine. With luck they would be dozing, and off guard around 0200. At 0330 the Roundsman and the Boatswain's mate would go into the barracks to wake up the next Watch. Who was on Morning Watch would determine the amount of time he could spend in each barracks, or one barracks. It varied day to day. At 0400 the oncoming Watchmen were mostly Boatswains and Gunners. This was good in that tonight he could visit the cooks, in Barracks 1, and the buglers, in Barracks 3. The cooks were shaken at 0400, the Duty Bugler at 0530. The cadets would be sleeping soundly and there would be no worries about someone barging in to wake his relief.

There were other barracks he would like to visit. Barracks 2, which housed the Storekeepers and Bunting Tossers, and Barracks 4, which housed the Bandsmen, contained some very tasty morsels. He did not consider visiting Barracks 5 and 6, which housed the New Entry and General Training Cadets. These barracks he would avoid as the cadets were far too young for his tastes, the oldest being perhaps 14, the youngest 12 years and six months, this being the minimum age for a cadet to attend any camp. To The Phantom's mind these cadets were little boys and he had no interest in them.

Barracks 7 and 8, which housed the Boatswains and Gunners, were definitely worth a visit. These he would visit later in the summer, when not so many of them were Duty. The other barracks blocks, the Chiefs' Mess, the Gunroom, the Petty Officers Mess, and the barracks housing the Chippy-Chaps and the Stokers were all grouped at the far end of the Parade Square. Getting to these barracks would be time consuming, and there was a lot of open ground. Too bad, they housed some tasty, ripe, specimens.

Having decided which barracks to visit, The Phantom now considered which cadet he would help make it through the night. He did not want to repeat the experience of his very first visit. Light sleepers, no matter how tempting, had to be avoided. Heavy sleepers were a different matter. He knew from health class when sleep was deepest. The Phantom sniffed derisively. His teachers could teach him all about sleep patterns, but ask about jacking off, or knocking a girl up, and he got detention. The best time was between two and three in the morning. Not a problem.

Finding out which cadet was a deep sleeper was perhaps the easiest thing of all to learn for all The Phantom had to do was listen to the cadets grumbling. They moaned and complained constantly, about their routine, about who had smelly feet, or who wore the same pair of underpants for days on end. They complained about their lack of sleep, and they complained about one another, constantly harping when someone who should have gotten up to relieve them did not, or were late. Sleep was a precious commodity to the cadets. They were on the go from 0600 until 2230. They attended classes, drilled, and stood watches, which meant some of them got up at six and went to bed at four the next morning. The only time off they had was on Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday, and sometimes not even then. For good reason some slept like the dead, which made waking them up difficult. Harry for instance, was almost impossible to wake up. Thumper, Little Big Man, and a host of others were notorious for the difficulty in waking them up. They had to be shaken hard, always on the shoulder, or have their feet almost pulled from their ankles (touching below the waist or above the knees was not allowed), before they woke up. Someone was always complaining about them. Others, on the other hand, were light sleepers. The Twins always awoke at the slightest touch, as did Two Strokes. Just by listening to the idle chatter of the galley cadets as they worked told The Phantom that Sandro and Ray were heavy sleepers. He still wanted to visit the young drummer he had his eye on. He had not heard enough about the boy to know what his sleeping habits were so he would have to take his chances when he visited him.

The Phantom resisted the urge to have a cigarette. He knew that the tobacco smoke would seep into his clothing and linger on his breath. He took no chances even though he knew that the smell of tobacco smoke was not out of place in AURORA. The cadets were not supposed to smoke, but many of the older boys did anyway and were always sneaking off to do the guy thing and have a quick smoke in some out-of- the-way corner.

He glanced at his watch. 0130. He stood up from the desk and left his bedroom. As quietly as he could he left the house and took his bike from the garage. Before mounting he checked and made sure he had the rest of his gear. Satisfied, he mounted his bike and peddled off into the night.

The Phantom's house was only a short dogleg away from the road leading to AURORA, which was ill lit and rarely, if ever patrolled by the local constabulary, or by anyone else for that matter. The local police tended to concentrate downtown, where the bars and the tourists were. It was a joke at AURORA that the MP's from CFB Comox only came by once a week or so to make sure that the place was still there.

As he expected, he passed no cars, and saw no one. The road was almost always free of traffic. Except for the Lieutenant Dickensen and Kyle, all the other high-priced help lived either in Comox, as did Number One and The Gunner, or Courtenay, where the Commanding Officer lived. Except for the morning and evening "rush hours" most, if not all, traffic was confined to the daylight duty hours.

The Phantom stopped a short distance before the road curved to enter AURORA, dismounted and pushed his bike a hundred yards into the woods that lined the road. Here, well hidden by the knee-deep undergrowth and closely growing trees was a small shack that he and Sam had discovered on one of their rambles. It was weather beaten, and the roof leaked, but it was sound. Whoever had built the shack was long gone and when they had found the place it was evident that no one had lived in it, or been near it, in a long time. They cleaned out some of the critters that had taken up residence, swept the earthen floor of most of the filth, and hung an old blanket over the only window. They had installed an old bed and mattress they had found at the city dump, hoping to make the old shack one of their jerking places.

The Phantom sat on the ancient bed and pulled on his mask, then his gloves. He looked around and surveyed the broken down bed and the rickety table standing against one wall. He smiled tightly. Sam and he had christened the bed and that was all they had done. Two days later Sam had fallen victim to one of his period fits of morality and never returned to the little hut. Now the only beating off in the old shack was when The Phantom stopped by to relieve himself after visiting the cadets. He would never have made it home without a quick wank.

He left the shack and walked to the road, checking left, and then right. Nothing. Walking quickly he crossed the road and entered the high scrub grass. He walked on, stopping frequently and checking for traffic. He heard nothing.

Following the curve of the causeway and keeping clear of the well-lit sign announcing the entry to AURORA, The Phantom swerved to walk on the narrow strip of sand the cadets used for swimming, and then crept along the narrow pathway leading towards the base. He looked ahead then to his right. Across the dark waters of the harbour were the lights of Comox. To his left the roadway leading to the Guardhouse was only a few feet above his head. It was well lit so he ducked down, keeping below the level of the road. He saw that the beach ahead was narrowing, as the high tide flowed into the harbour. By the time The Phantom returned this way it would be on the ebb and he would have more room to navigate.

The landmass in front of him began to widen as it formed the training base and as he neared the Mess Hall, and the Guardhouse, he heard voices. He stopped and looked over the lip of the roadbed and saw Little Big Man and Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent. They were just entering the Guardhouse, which meant that luck was with him. They had just finished Rounds. Had they been going the other way it would have meant that they were just starting on their patrol and he would have had to find a place to hide until Rounds were over.

He watched the cadet and the officer enter the Guardhouse, then scrambled up the bank and slipped around the edge of the Mess Hall. There was only one light burning dimly over the stairs leading to the galley. He skirted it, staying in the shadows, moving past the first set of dark barracks. He stopped in the wide space between Barracks 2 and 3 and listened. Except for the noise of the night insects, and the tide seeping slowly up the beach, he heard nothing. Crouching low, he rounded the corner of Barracks 3, mounted the concrete stoop, stripped off his gloves and entered.

The Phantom waited for his eyes to adjust to the soft glow of the red emergency lights. He heard the sounds of sleeping boys, soft snores, snorts, an occasional rustling of sheets as one of them turned or tossed as he slept. From the far end he heard a soft, incoherent mumbling. Someone talking in his sleep. Everything was normal.

He slipped passed the sleeping Sylvain and Andre and headed for the blond-haired drummer boy he had not visited the evening before. The cadet lay under a window, midway down the mess, shadowed by the bunk above.

The Phantom knelt beside the bunk and slowly pulled down the sheet that covered the sleeping cadet until it was just below the boy's knees. As he expected, the cadet was wearing only the ubiquitous white briefs and The Phantom could see the outline of the cadet's short cock and tightly packed balls under the thin fabric of the briefs. In the dim light he examined the cadet, who was about 15, promising tallness. He had thin, not quite fully formed arms, and good, muscular legs, with just the barest hint of blond peach fuzz dusting them. His face was unblemished, with a strong jaw and just a touch of delicacy that many young boys had before all their hormones kicked in. His hair was blond, and long on top, which he normally teased into a widow's peak.

The Phantom reached over and pulled down the front of the young drummer's briefs. The cadet's circumcised cock rested against his thigh. His balls, the size of large eggs, were contained in a low-hanging sac that hung between his half-spread legs. Surprisingly, for the boy's body was completely hairless, he had a thick, dark bush at the base of his cock. With his free hand The Phantom slowly stroked the soft flesh of the cadet's balls, then his penis, which stirred and began to stiffen, thickening under The Phantom's touch and rising up, a shaft of smooth, satin-covered steel, twitching as The Phantom stroked it gently, a small drop of pre-cum oozing over his darkened helmet. The Phantom felt the boy's balls tighten under his fingers.

On a whim The Phantom replaced the cadet's briefs, hiding his glory under the white cotton. He began to slowly stroke the hard flesh hidden by the white briefs with his hand. He felt the boy's balls tighten against his body, held in place by the tight fitting briefs. His dick lay hard against his abdomen with his clearly defined mushroom just below the wide elastic band of his underpants. The Phantom stroked slowly up and down, applying just enough pressure to friction the drummer's dick with the cotton fabric. He felt the vein on the underside of the boy's cock thicken under his touch and his finger felt the dampness caused by the precum oozing from the softly curving helmet. He slowly stroked up and down the thick length of flesh.

Stimulated and excited the boy slowly thrust his hips as The Phantom stroked upward. The Phantom smiled as the boy shuddered and thrust again, his body responding to the approach of his orgasm, his cock trembling under The Phantom's touch. He was getting close and his breathing, which until now slow and steady, quickened. The Phantom watched as the cadet worked his mouth, his tongue darting in and out, licking his lips.

Concentrating on the tender skin on the underside of the boy's mushroom The Phantom watched as the young cadet's face contorted with the pain and pleasure of cumming that began to fill his body. A soft moan escaped the cadet's lips. He thrust his hips higher and his dick pulsed violently under The Phantom's touch. His balls expelled a huge wad of spunk, which was quickly absorbed by the cotton fabric of his briefs. His dick pulsed again, then again, and each time he thrust just a little higher, moaning softly as the warm, thick, river squirted from him.

The Phantom continued to stroke the squirming boy until his dick began to soften. He felt the thick layer of cum squishing under the boy's briefs, then lifted his fingers to his nose and smelled the distinctive, pleasant odour of fresh sperm. Pleased, The Phantom drew the sheet over the sleeping cadet and silently slipped away.

Keeping his hands in his pockets rather than putting his black gloves on he retraced his steps and entered the Cooks Barracks where darkness of the long mess deck was made darker by the high wall of the Mess Hall next door. He located Sandro first. He was sleeping on his stomach in a top bunk, his curving melon-shaped butt a tempting sight. The Phantom was disappointed. He had been looking forward to doing Sandro. The cook had told him about his upcoming surgery and The Phantom thought that it might be nice to give the young Russian something he would not be able to give himself for a long time. "I would like to be around when that happens," thought The Phantom. He ran his hand along Sandro's firm backside and went in search of Ray.

The Phantom found the young cook on the lower bunk beside the wide doorway leading to the dimly lit heads and washplace that formed the double barracks into an H. Ray was lying on his back, his arm raised, shielding his eyes from the light filtering from the open doors of the shower room. His legs were slightly spread, his other arm lying at his side. His body, from mid-chest to his feet, was covered with the light, blue-checked coverlet that was issued to all cadets.

Moving into the into the shadows on the other side of Ray's bunk, The Phantom pulled down the coverlet, revealing Ray's well-formed, boyishly muscular body, which was clad in the expected white briefs. His hairless chest rose and fell gently as he breathed. For some reason The Phantom was very attracted to this boy. He could not explain it. He just wanted to have him. He stroked Ray's tight package, and felt the young cook's penis harden. He pulled down Ray's tight underpants and cupped his smallish balls, which were contained in a tight, smooth feeling sac. His hard dick was five inches long, the upper quarter and his helmet a delicious dusky pink, gently rising and lowering in time with his never changing breathing.

Ray's sleek circumcised cock intrigued the Phantom. He wondered what it tasted like, so he bent down and slowly licked Ray's firm, engorged knob, which tasted wonderful, clean and light. He then kissed Ray's pee slit, which tasted just as fresh and clean as the part he had licked.

Much to The Phantom's surprise as he withdrew his lips, Ray raised his hips slightly and held them up, offering his dick. The Phantom slipped his hands under the waistband of Ray's briefs, slowly drawing them down, feeling Ray's smooth, taut ass cheeks as he did so. Not until The Phantom had pulled his briefs down around his knees did Ray lower his hips.

The Phantom was somewhat at a loss. He had never had this happen before. Except for his hip movement Ray had not made any other movement. His breathing was just as steady as it had been before The Phantom stroked him to life. The Phantom shrugged mentally, secretly pleased that Ray was responding. He lowered his head and gently kissed the tender underside of Ray's gloriously pink helmet, and then did what he had wanted to do for a long time. He opened his mouth and slowly lowered his head, taking in first Ray's mushroom, then gingerly working his way down the shaft, stifling a gagging feeling in his throat, until his nose was buried in Ray's curly bush. He sucked at the base of Ray's cock and then moved upward; holding and sucking just the top half of the sleek, sweet-tasting tube of warm, firm flesh.

Ray had been drowsing in the half-world between sleep and wakefulness when he heard the door open, and for a while thought that the Roundsman was patrolling the barracks. The lack of further movement surprised him, however. He had expected to hear the clomp of heavy boots on the tiled deck as the Roundsman walked the length of the barracks. Then he snuggled deeper into his warm bunk, dismissing whoever it was from his mind. It was not important. Someone was always shuffling about the barracks in the middle of the night, guys going pee, the Quartermaster waking the relief for the Duty Watch, Watchmen going on watch, Watchmen coming off watch. There was always movement of some kind or another, just as there was always a muted undercurrent of noise, the sounds of guys sleeping, or trying not to strangle themselves as they clenched their teeth when they orgasmed, which happened every night. He always knew when Sandro was choking his chicken by the gurgling noises the Russian made when he shot his load. For his part Ray never beat off in bed. He was always up before the other cadets and took care of business in the showers, with no one the wiser.

He was drifting deeper into sleep when he sensed a presence. Ray's mind, befogged with sleep, registered a slight scent, clean and crisp, a scent that he had smelled before. His nose twitched slightly as his brain tried to identify the odour when suddenly his heart skipped a beat and his brain cleared. There was a hand, a finger, something, stroking his penis. He could feel his dick hardening as his underpants were pulled down. He felt a hand cupping and fondling his balls, rolling them slowly in the soft bag that contained them. He stifled a groan of pleasure, willing himself to give no hint that he was awake. He neither knew nor cared who it was that was playing with him. He felt wonderful, glorious waves of divine pleasure rippling through his body. His heart skipped another beat as warm, wet lips pressed against the underside of his dick, then gently kissed the tip of his enraged penis. Whoever it was wanted his cock and he raised his hips in offering. He had heard of such things happening and now they were happening to him! He felt his briefs being pulled away and then his eyes flew open as his entire cock was engulfed with warmth! His fingers balled into tight fists as he fought all his instincts to groan and moan and bellow his delight at what was happening to him. Someone was sucking his dick!

The Phantom could not believe that he was actually sucking a cock. It tasted wonderful and felt natural. He loved the taste of it and, wanting to make it last, he sucked very slowly, moving his head up and down Ray's thickened erection, laving the raging head with his tongue. "Fucking hell," thought The Phantom, "This is wonderful!" He instinctively kept his teeth well away from Ray's sensitive skin, sucking gently, totally absorbed in his first taste of cock. He felt his own hard dick bucking in his tight pants. His balls were tight against his belly, and he could feel his cum boiling. He was getting close to shooting.

Ray lay there, breathing heavily, as The Phantom sucked him. The Phantom did not know if Ray was asleep or awake. He did not care. He just wanted to suck this magnificent specimen. Suddenly Ray gave a slight thrust, and his dick pulsed and a river of thick, warm liquid filled The Phantom's mouth, oozing out of the corners of his lips as he sucked. The Phantom did not know what else to do with the glorious cream filling his mouth so he began swallowing greedily. As the first taste of Ray's cum set his taste buds on fire The Phantom blew, his dick pumping a massive load, spasming and thrusting against the fabric of his briefs. The Phantom, his mouth full of sweet cock, and sweeter tasting cum, vaguely realized that he was cumming in sync with Ray.

As Ray's ejaculation ended so did The Phantom's. He continued to suck and clean Ray's dick, which was beginning to shrink in his mouth. When he had swallowed every drop, and licked Ray's dick clean, The Phantom withdrew. He stood up and gazed at the now soft cock he had drained.

"Hell and sheeit," he whispered as he slowly drew the coverlet over Ray's flushed body. "I've sucked a cock!" he thought incredulously. "I've actually sucked a cock. I've actually tasted another guy's cum." He leaned down and gently kissed Ray's slightly open mouth. He had never kissed a boy before, but this was a night for firsts and the feel of Ray's warm lips against his was intoxicating. "But not as intoxicating as the feel of his dick in my mouth," he thought as he slowly pulled away.

Slightly dazed, still overcome with the pleasure his body had given him, and the pleasure Ray's body had given him, The Phantom left the barracks. He recovered himself enough to make his way safely to the shack where he retrieved his bike, mounted it, and pedalled rapidly towards home, not realizing until he reached the road leading to his house that he still had his mask on. He ripped it off, a broad smile of pleasure and satisfaction creasing his face. All he could think about was sucking Ray's dick. Hell and sheeit!

He stored his bike and all but glided up the stairs and into his room, where he stripped. He lay on his bed, his cum soaked briefs in his hand, every so often raising them and drinking in the odour of his fresh juice. "Hell and sheeit!" he thought, sniffing deeply. "I sucked a cock. I actually sucked a cock! Hell and FUCKING sheeit!"

The waves of pleasure, in small, diminishing ripples continued to course through Ray. His whole body was flushed and his mind was reeling. His tongue flicked rapidly around his mouth, searching for yet another taste of his semen. He was exhausted, sated, spent with delight. "He sucked my cock!" Ray gasped quietly, still in the thrall of his first encounter with another boy. "HE SUCKED MY COCK!" he repeated as a huge grin spread across his face.

The Twins awoke only minutes before the bugle sounded Reveille. They tossed their covers aside, got up, and walked out to the small concrete stoop to begin enjoying what promised to be a perfect day. The early morning sun was warm on their golden bodies, and they stretched and scratched happily.

Cory, well rested after a dream-free night, was in a playful mood. He goosed Todd, who smiled warmly. Cory's funk was gone, and he was his old self again. He jerked his head toward the mess deck. "Pretty quiet in there."

"We can fix that," replied Todd. "Let's get 'em up."

They grinned broadly at each other then charged into the barracks where they began causing as much trouble and inconvenience as they could, pulling feet, throwing pillows, and making as much noise as possible as they shouted the age-old wake up ritual.

"Wakey, Wakey, Wakey," the Twins shouted at the groaning boys, "The sun's up, I'm up, you're up." Todd smacked Jon on his behind and Cory gave Alfie's foot a hard yank. "Let go your cocks and grab your socks. Wakey, Wakey!"

The cadets snarled and swore at them, not appreciating the Twins adding insult to the bugler's injury. The Twins pounded the table and stamped their feet, swearing back and chucking shit at everyone in sight. They spotted Chris climbing out of his bunk; the front of his briefs tented by his morning woody, and extravagantly complimented him on the length and girth of it. As Chris passed by them on his way to the heads Cory reached out and gave his nicely rounded bum a soft caress, which caused him to blush furiously and rush to the shitters where he locked himself in a cubicle and beat off furiously into a wad of toilet paper. Chris was so overcome by the unexpected attention and the bum pat that he came after barely a minute of frantic pumping.

Seeing that Alfie was still curled under his bed covers Todd poked his ample behind with a bayonet scabbard. Alfie leaped like a seal and threw one of his boots at Todd, who ducked and turned, heading for Two Strokes. "Touch me and die!" the thin, dark haired boy warned as Todd approached his bed.

Todd flipped Two Strokes the bird and they wheeled and stood at the foot of Harry's bed and ostentatiously snickered and pointed at the large stain marring his otherwise pristine white briefs. Todd observed that Harry must have shot one hell of a monster load to get through all the cloth he had stuffed down the front of his drawers.

"Fuck you!" snarled Harry as he crawled out of bed. He took a menacing step towards the Twins.

"Not in your lifetime," retorted Todd.

"Or with your dick," finished Cory.

Todd and Cory turned and moved back to their own bunks where they scooped up their towels and shaving gear. The Twins shaving was a standing joke. What little beard they had was so fine as to be almost invisible, and grew so slowly that they shaved only once a week, when they remembered. They figured that since today was Friday, and Captain's Rounds, they had better make the effort in case he decided to give them the once over.

When they entered the washplace they saw Jon, who was bent over the sink, busily brushing his teeth, his tight, bubble butt bouncing enticingly. Cory could not help himself. He reached out and pulled the back of Jon's briefs open, exposing his creamy, white cheeks. Todd quickly inserted his can of shaving cream and pressed the nozzle, filling Jon's butt crack with thick, foaming soap. Cory released the elastic of Jon's briefs. It snapped back and slapped his back sharply. Jon, after disengaging his toothbrush from his tonsils, slapped his behind, covering his cheeks with Gillette Foamy. He swore at the Twins and then groaned. "Fuck Todd, these are my last pair until I can do a laundry."

"You can borrow a pair of mine," offered Todd.

"Or you can have these," said Cory helpfully, as he began to push his boxers down towards his knees.

"No I can't," returned Jon over his shoulder as he beat a hasty retreat. "God only knows where they've been," he finished ungratefully.

The Twins figured, fuck it, we'll shave tomorrow, and returned to the Gunroom where they could hear Val, the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor yelling at the other cadets to get their asses in gear. As they passed down the short corridor that led to the Gunroom they saw Val standing in the doorway of the Chiefs' Mess wearing only a pair of blue and white tartan boxers, his hair tousled, his firm jaw dark with stubble. They smiled sweetly and sighed loudly and as they passed Val, Cory copped a quick feel. "Good morning, Gunner," the Twins chorused.

Val jumped back and quickly slammed the door. He flopped down on his bed. "Jesus, Tyler, I hope those two fuckers are only kidding." he groaned at the untidy pile of sheets and blankets on the other bed in the room.

The Master at Arms poked his head out. "Don't bet on it," he said sourly.

Across the harbour, barely a mile from where The Phantom slept blissfully, one hand cupping his parts, the other clutching his cum-stiffened briefs, The Gunner awoke. It was 0600.

As quietly as he could, not wanting to waken the still sleeping Joel, The Gunner quietly left the bed and walked into the small kitchen, turned on the coffee maker, and then went into the bathroom where he shaved and showered. He returned to his bedroom where he donned a clean uniform. Like it or not he was required to attend Divisions at 0800, and today being Friday, Captain's Rounds. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of the strong, black, witches' brew he called coffee, and then began making breakfast.

Lured from his bed by the smell of cooking, Joel shuffled into the kitchen. Since he was as naked as a jay he gingerly positioned himself in one of the four cane-bottom chairs surrounding the table. The Gunner told him that if he sat there long enough he would end up with a crisscrossed ass. Joel, not being a morning person, grumped that it was his ass, thank you very much, and could he have a cup of coffee, please.

The Gunner put a plate piled with food in front of Joel who, after four sessions of lovemaking, and only a half-eaten dinner many hours before, was ravenous. He dug into the eggs, bacon and hash browns on his plate. The Gunner then placed a cup of coffee beside the plate of food, and sat down opposite Joel who took a tentative sip of the coffee and grimaced. "Is this coffee or paint remover?"

"Sorry, I forgot you don't like it too strong."

"You have not forgotten I am taking the early ferry from Nanaimo?"

"No, I have not forgotten," sighed The Gunner.

"Good. And do not start with me," Joel said between bites. "I'm going to Seattle. Maybe for a week, maybe forever. I do not know for how long. I only know that I am not going to make a move until I am sure of what I am doing." He looked steadily at The Gunner. "And you can stop staring at me with that hang dog look on your face."

"Actually, I was thinking."

"About?"

"Us, me, you, a lot of things. Mostly about us." He leaned forwarded and took

Joel's hand in his. "My enlistment is up next year. December, I think. I am not all that happy in the Service anymore. I guess I am just an unreconstructed Blue Navy sailor. I do not like the way things are going. Maybe you are right. Maybe it's time to get out, time to think about the future."

"Am I included in your future?" asked Joel, knowing the answer to his question. He squeezed The Gunner's hand, not really meaning it.

The Gunner nodded. "I hope so. I want to think about it some more. I am not going to do anything until I am sure of what I want to do." He kissed Joel's hand. "I want you in my future, Joel, but until I make up my mind. I cannot promise you anything." He held up his hand before Joel could reply. "Please, let's just try to work this out."

"No promises, no commitments," thought Joel. He smiled at the man he would love until the day he died, and lied. "We'll talk when I get back from Seattle."

Commander Francis Albert Edward Stockman, DSO, DSC, CD, RCNR, the Commanding Officer of HMCS AURORA, was a tall, wiry man, with thinning grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard as grey as the hair on his head. His pale blue eyes had failed him, forcing him to wear thick-lensed spectacles, which magnified his eyes and gave him a maniacal air. At the age of 13 his parents had remitted 90 pounds to the Admiralty, three times that much to Gieves, by Appointment, Tailors and Naval Outfitters to HM King Edward VII, and off he went to the Royal Naval College, Osborne. Two years later he was sailing the River Dart, a Cadet at Britannia Royal Naval College. At 17 he was gazetted a Midshipman and, the King's Telescope firmly under his arm, he began his Naval Career, fresh faced, eager, not too naive, posted to what turned out to be an ancient river gunboat on the China Station, huffing and puffing the length of the Yangtze, from Shanghai to Nanking and back. During the course of his naval career he had lost his virginity to a Sing-Sing girl in the French Concession, got the clap from a White Russian whore in Hong Kong, a DSO at Dunkirk, a DSC during the Battle of the Atlantic, an embarrassing wound courtesy of a German shore battery at Normandy, a less than adequate retirement package from the RN, and a Commissioning Scroll from the Queen naming him a Commander in the RCNR (Cadet Instructors List). He had dealt with hurricanes, cyclones, rust in the bilge, rats in the dry stores, two mutinies, drunken sailors, Hitler, three wives, six children (all girls) and the Ship's cat, none of which had prepared him for his present commission.

His desk was piled high with file folders, papers, reports and, he suspected, what smelled like a dead mouse. Today he had dealt with stains on the sheets, the Twins, six whining boys all wanting to go home to Mum, the Vicar moaning and dripping about his bloody Church Parade, and a host of other problems. Outside his office door Number One, Doctor Reynolds, the Principal Medical Officer, The Gunner, the Cadet Master at Arms, the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor, and the Ship's cat waited impatiently for him to start Parish Rounds. His tired eyes skimmed across the pages of a letter from an irate parent demanding an explanation why his darling son had been shipped home in disgrace. "Well, trying to burn down the Boat Shed was a good start," he thought. Father laid it aside, and picked up another piece of misery. Everything involving the cadets ended up on his desk. Every cadet problem, every problem cadet, demanded his attention.

The Commanding Officer worked diligently on until the ship's clock on the wall behind him sounded two double chimes. It was 1000, halfway through the Morning Watch, and time to begin Rounds. He grimaced at the pile of papers that still awaited his attention and then groaned the Sea Cadet Commander's prayer: "From beasties, ghoulies, things that go bump in the night . . .and Sea Cadets, Lord God Deliver Us!" Then he picked up his cap and telescope and left his office.

Father greeted the Inspection Party with a jovial wave and a smile. Except for The Gunner, they were all dressed in summer white uniforms, Number One and the PMO wearing white, short sleeved shirts, long white, starched trousers, and white shoes. Their shoulder boards were the old pattern, with gold lace stripes and Eliot's eye, the PMO's boards brightened by scarlet cloth between the gold stripes. The two Cadets wore stiffly starched, white, cotton drill bell-bottoms and gunshirts, their spit-shined black boots reflecting the overhead lights.

"Those two must have cornered the market on spray starch," thought Father. "I hope that they have enough sense to wear boxers. If they are wearing briefs the insides of their legs will be all chafed and Reynolds will be off and running with another lecture on hygiene." He turned to the Executive Officer. "Before I forget, I would like all the lads to have new Number 11s for the Church Parade. A little bird tells me that the NADEN Supply Officer has a warehouse full of them."

Val and Tyler beamed. The white bell bottom trousers and the jumper, worn skin tight and fitted with a dark blue collar edged with three thin stripes, which tradition held was to commemorate Nelson's three victories, and with thin blue piping along the bottom seam and cuffs, and long white ribbons at the front, combined to set off their smooth young bodies to perfection. The birds all loved to see the young cadets dressed in the body hugging Class IIs, which were considered guaranteed babe magnets, almost as good as their Class I uniforms.

Father seemed to read their minds. "Any before you two get any bright ideas, you are Chiefs, and I've decided you are going to look like Chiefs." He motioned to Number One. "While you are whispering sweet nothings in NADEN's ear draw two sets of fore-and-aft rig for these two. Also caps, buttons and crowns. You all seem to want a dog and pony show for the riffraff so I shall give them one. They need gaiters. Guns can supply them."

Both Number One and The Gunner groaned silently. Father's determined return to tradition was going to cost them something. As they followed the Commanding Officer out of the building Number One scribbled the number "2" on his clip board and showed it to The Gunner, who shook his head and held up four fingers. Supply types gave nothing for nothing. Four 40-ounce bottles of Pusser rum, prized beyond rubies and pearls by the older hands, would be part of the Executive Officer's luggage when he traveled down to Victoria.

As they headed for the Staff Barracks, which were the closest accommodation blocks to the Headquarters Building, Father continued to issue instructions. Regulations dictated that all non-Anglicans were not required to attend the Church Parade. To make sure that everybody knew exactly which religions were exempt The Gunner was to make out a list of "Fancy Religions". The Cadet Gunner would read them at Divisions next Saturday.

They walked into the Staff Barracks, peered into the Chiefs' Mess, and began inspecting the Gunroom. The Commanding Officer ran his fingers along the locker tops, and peered under the bunks for dust and stray bits of flotsam. As he passed down the double row of bunks he lifted the odd mattress, and was disappointed not to find any skin books hidden under them. Either he was getting too obvious or the cadets were getting smarter.

He opened the door at the far end of the Gunroom and entered the Petty Officers Mess, which was just as neat and clean as the Gunroom. They exited the Staff Barracks and headed for the Chippy-Chaps and Stokers quarters, Father talking, the others taking notes. "The Mayors of Comox and Courtenay, with wives, are attending our little soiree. I am not looting my spirit locker for those freeloaders." He gave Doc, who was the Wardroom Secretary and Wine Bosun, a level glance. "They'll get sherry and biscuits so could you please set up something in the wardroom."

Doc nodded and hid a grimace as he wondered who was going to pay for the booze, for he knew that the Commanding Officer, while a darling man and a very good officer, had extremely deep pockets. "I'll get Chef to do up some canapés and munchies."

"You risk the wrath," muttered The Gunner as they entered the Stokers barracks.

"Not as much as when he finds out I am stealing Phantom to be Father's Tiger," replied the Doctor with a grin.

They walked down the row of bunks, each tightly made up and with the owner's kit neatly laid out. Once again the Commanding Officer was satisfied. The Marine Engineering Course cadets were usually older, and had been 'round the horn a time or two. From the Stokers' mess they carried on to Chippy-Chaps. "There is an American cadet cutter coming up from Seattle next Friday," said Father as they entered the barracks. "The General Training Course will be leaving so you can put the American ratings into Barracks 5 until Sunday, when they are leaving anyway. Forty cadets."

"The officers in the Wardroom?" asked Doc hopefully. "It's half empty anyway." Father nodded and Doc beamed. Four American officers meant a reception, which meant booze. With a little creative book keeping he could write off Father's sherryfest.

The caravan roared on, across the parade square, stopping briefly to look at the drilling cadets, sailed into Barracks 8, through the connecting washplace and into Barracks 6. Both were clean, so they continued to Barracks 5, where they found the bunks stripped, the soiled linen neatly folded and placed at the end of each bunk. Tightly packed kit bags were neatly piled on the mess tables. The General Training Cadets who occupied this mess were graduating later in the day, and would be going home.

"That reminds me," said Father, turning to The Gunner. "A word after we have finished, please." The Gunner nodded, wondering what the Old Man was up to. They carried on to the other barracks and, deliberately avoiding the Mess Hall galley (and Chef), returned to the Headquarters Building, where Father thanked the Inspection Party. He motioned for The Gunner to follow him and they entered his office where he returned his cap and telescope to their original resting places, sat down behind his desk and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a bottle of rum, and two tumblers. After pouring a generous tot into each glass he cut it with water from the carafe he kept on his credenza, then raised his glass in salute. "The sun has got to be over the yardarm somewhere in this world." The Gunner returned the gesture and took a sip of the watered rum. He had long ago learned that the Old Man poured them deep and stiff.

After swallowing a large gulp of Nelson's Blood Father sighed and scratched his beard. "I do wish we could do something about your rig, Guns." He gestured at

The Gunner's uniform. "Green is not your colour."

"I have to wear what they issue me," shrugged The Gunner. "It's nice about the white uniforms. And the new kit for the Master at Arms and the Cadet Gunner. They will be pleased."

"And as proud as peacocks. I know all about sailors and their uniforms. Give them something that shows off what they think are their manly chests and bums and pleases the ladies and they are as happy as clams." He took another drink. "I used to think that women were vain. Even as we speak my wife is scouring the souks of Victoria for a new frock and hat to wear next week. But, dear Lord, the ladies have nothing on young sailors."

"I know the feeling well," admitted The Gunner. "I used my first pay to buy a tailor-made set of Number One's." He grinned broadly and took another drink. "I thought I was some punkin' when I was wearing it. Of course, I was only 18, so I guess I can be forgiven."

Father chuckled. "I was 18 once, meself. Ah, those were the days." He indicated The Gunner's drink. "You're taking it slow, Guns."

"Lots to do this afternoon. Starting with getting the General Training Cadets onto their plane." He glanced at his watch. "And you are to make the Queen and Country speech at their graduation." He finished his drink.

Father finished his and poured another measure. "I'll be there. We shall have the second half, and then I will let you be on your way."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. I am about to put another little tidbit on your plate."

"Sir?" asked The Gunner, a little suspicious.

Father winked at him. "Don't worry. It's not all that bad. It's just that I have to do something about the stains."

"Stains? What stains?" The Gunner had not a clue what the Old Man was going on about.

"Stains on the sheets. Semen stains." said Father calmly. He sounded as if he was discussing buying a new tie. "The Base is complaining about it and nattering on about double the bleach or some such, and why should they hand out shot-stained linen. They are most upset about it."

"I'd have thought they had more important things to think about."

"As would I, dear boy, as would I." said Father placatingly. "But they obviously have not and we have to do something about it."

The Gunner noticed the "we." He took a stiff drink of the rum. "It's not as if it's something new. After all, they are young men, and unless something has happened in the last year or so I do not think they've taken vows of chastity." "They have not," said Father airily. "I quite agree that it's to be expected. When you have young men, well, nature has her way." He smiled wickedly. "Dirty little buggers will be dirty little buggers. Cannot be helped, cannot be stopped. Still, we must make the effort."

"Well, I hardly think I am the man to do it," replied The Gunner with some heat.

"What's wrong with Doc, or the Vicar? They usually handle this sort of thing."

"I did think of them," replied Father blandly. "But I know the Doctor. He will get all clinical and forget that he is talking to boys who do not know their glans corona from the Crown of the Andes, or their perineum from peanut butter. No, he is out."

"The Vicar, then?" asked The Gunner hopefully.

"Dear God, no!" replied Father as he sat up with a start. "He'll spout Leviticus and Deuteronomy and threaten them with the Book of Revelation. He will frighten them out of their wits and end up screwing up their sex lives for the next 20 years. He will have them all convinced that there is a special circle in hell reserved for wankers. They will all end up with nightmares. No, no, me lad. It's you. Give the boys a short lecture, a little humour, a little common sense, and Bob's your uncle."

"I haven't a clue what to say." The Gunner finished his drink and put the empty glass on the desk. "Besides, they are only doing what comes naturally."

"Of course they are." agreed Father affably. He grinned a wicked little grin.

"We've all done it, at one time or another. However, their parents do not expect us to let down the side." He leaned forward and looked at The Gunner. "Personally I really do not care if they do it. Just ask them to be a little, less . . . um . . .well, blatant about it."

"I still do not know what to say to them," The Gunner replied stubbornly as he stood up.

"Oh, you will think of something. That is why you are the Gunner."

The Phantom awoke with his raging hardon in his right hand and his cum stiffened briefs in his left. He felt wonderful. He had dreamed of cocks all night and, from the crusted, pale cream clumps on his stomach, and in his dark pubic hair, he thought he must have either had a huge wet dream, or beat himself silly in his sleep. Not that it mattered. Last night he had sucked a cock. He had crossed the bridge into Heaven.

He ran his tongue around his teeth and the inside of his mouth, hoping for a taste, even a drop, of Ray's cum. All The Phantom could taste was night crud. He sniffed his soiled briefs, smelling his scent and the faint, familiar odour of spunk. He breathed deeply, seeming to suck the smell out of the cloth. He felt his cock twitch and he began to stroke himself. His balls, aching for release, were tight against his body. He pumped rapidly, all the while thinking of sucking Ray's beautiful cock. No. Sucking . . .

The Phantom felt the familiar feeling building and his dick began to tremble and jerk as his cum-filled balls began generating the extraordinary electricity, sending his senses into overload. He leaned upward, his head back, his mouth agape, as he savagely pounded on his raging cock. He began groaning in expectation of orgasm, moaning the name again, his face contorting with the indescribable pleasure of cumming. "G . . .G . . .God . . ." he moaned, his hand a whir as he brought himself to the edge of the cliff, and over. "Oh, Jesus . . .Oh . . .aaagh . . ." he groaned, his head flailing, his chest heaving as he drew great gulps of air into his oxygen-starved lungs. His entire body seemed to explode as his cock, thicker and longer than he had ever dared to hope it would become pulsed, arcing jets of cum, spattering his chest and face. Shot after shot of thick, creamy semen flew from his dick. He moved his hand upward, concentrating on his crimson mushroom, so sensitive that his touch sent a fresh tremor of mind transporting pure ecstasy through him.

His hand pumped slower as his balls emptied and the feeling left him. As his head fell back on the pillow The Phantom released his shrinking dick. He lay there, arms and legs akimbo, absolutely exhausted, absorbed in the warmth and glow of his orgasm. He rubbed his hand across his chest, feeling the sticky warm product of his body. He lifted his hand and licked it clean, savouring the familiar taste. He cleaned his spunk from his body, licking his hand after each wipe. When he had swallowed as much as he could he reached down and felt his knob. The jolt of pleasure filled pain his touch created caused his toes to curl. "Holy shit!" he yelped. Fuck, no wonder Brendan hooted and hollered when he came. He quickly took his hand away from his sensitive helmet. He glanced over at the bedside clock and saw that it was a little after nine.

Reluctantly, The Phantom crawled out of bed and headed for the shower. He scrubbed himself thoroughly, taking care to avoid his still sensitive dick head, until the dictates of hygiene got the better of him and he gingerly patted it clean with a washcloth. It seemed that every time he touched himself his dick jerked.

Finished, The Phantom dried himself and put on a pair of grey boxers. They had a red USMC eagle/ball/anchor crest on one leg and had been a Christmas present from his father, who was hoping his youngest son would follow in his footsteps and become an Airborne Ranger. There were a lot of things The Phantom wanted to do with the rest of his life. Jumping out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft was not one of them.

The Phantom glanced at himself in the mirror before going downstairs. His reflection stared back, a not bad looking stud, his hair still damp from his shower, his tanned skin glowing, the aftermath of a stunning, mind numbing jerk. "Or a good long shower," thought the Phantom. He preferred to think it was the hand job.

His father, huge, hairy, and bespectacled, was seated at the kitchen table reading the morning paper. He was wearing boxers and, seated as he was, with his legs spread and his ankles crossed, the cloth of his underpants had ridden up, exposing his hairy thighs and the tip of his penis. Like both his sons, he had been circumcised, only his mushroom was huge, curling at the back to form a slight ridge before it curved down to join the shaft.

The sight of his father's dick did not excite The Phantom in the least. He had seen his father and his brother naked before, although not for a long time. His mother disapproved of her husband and son sitting around the house in their underwear and they only did it when she was not around in the morning.

Pouring a cup of coffee, The Phantom joined his father at the kitchen table. His father glanced at him over the rim of his reading glasses. "Good job your Mom is at work. She might not like your pants."

"Or yours," returned The Phantom with a chuckle.

His father laughed, took off his glasses and folded them. He placed them neatly on the table. "There was a letter from Brendan in the morning mail."

"Oh, yeah? How is he doing?" replied The Phantom, not the least bit interested.

"He's fine, I guess. You know Brendan. He never complains but he sounds homesick. The classroom work is giving him some trouble."

"No shit," thought The Phantom. "Brendan might have inherited Dad's dick, but I got Mom's brains." "He'll be all right," he said noncommittally. He stood up, washed his cup and put it away. He turned to face his father. "Don't worry, Dad, Brendan will be fine. He is really not a stupid as he looks."

His father laughed and shook his head. Brothers. Never give each other an even break. "Go to work, or I will tell your mother you are wandering around the house half-naked."

"Include yourself." shot back The Phantom as he ran up the stairs.

Dressed, The Phantom pedaled off to work. He stopped at the Ship's Laundry to draw clean galley whites, and then went over to the Mess Hall. As he changed he realized that he was a little apprehensive. He had, after all, given one of his coworkers a monumental blowjob, and he wondered what, if anything, Ray would say about it.

The Phantom need not have worried. Ray had no intention of saying a word. All morning, whenever he thought about the warm, moist mouth on his dick, or about the shattering orgasm he had experienced, his dick began to tingle and swell. No one had ever sucked his dick before. He did not know who had given him his first blowjob, and did not care. All he knew was that it was an experience he hoped would be repeated. He would not say anything. A guy just did not go around bragging about getting blown by another guy. There were some things a guy just did not talk about. He grinned happily. He might not talk about it but he sure as hell could hope it would happen again.

The galley was organized chaos. Chef was dancing around, tasting, sipping, stirring, adding this and that to the huge cauldron containing the soup, yelling at The Phantom to give Ray a hand with the fish, which had to be on the menu, this being Friday and all.

The Phantom hurried to the grill and saw that Ray, a big goofy grin on his face, and a bulge in the front of his pants, was letting the filets burn. "Jesus, Ray, Chef will kill you," he muttered. "Give me that thing." He snatched the spatula from Ray's hand. He gave Ray a slight shove. "Go help Sandro with the potatoes." "Oh, hi, Phantom." said Ray, returning to earth.

"Go and help Sandro," repeated the Phantom. "And for Christ's sake don't let Chef see that." He pointed at the bulge in Ray's pants.

Ray glanced down and adjusted himself. With his hardon straight up, held in place by his briefs, his boner in his pants was barely noticeable. "Sorry. It's just that I am so horny this morning. I get a hardon every five minutes. I never got this way before. I don't understand it." He turned and left the galley and went into the heads.

"I do," thought The Phantom evilly, the beginning of shit eating grin curling the corner of his mouth.

The Phantom spent the lunch hour dishing out food and covertly checking out the cadets as they passed down the steam line. When the lunchtime rush was over he busied himself, ostensibly clearing and wiping the tables but in reality eavesdropping as the cadets lingered and chattered away. The senior cadets were all in a dither over the new uniform issue, complaining that every item would need to be washed, starched and ironed so that they fit just right. The younger, more junior cadets were also complaining their usual gripes and groans about the food, their lack of sleep, and so on. The young drummer boy that The Phantom had visited in the night went by, nattering with the drummers about paradiddles and the dynamics of snare drums. He seemed totally unaffected by what had happened to him or waking up with his underpants crusted with his sperm. The Twins were as always the Twins. They started out eating at the gunners' table, then went visiting with the horn blowers for dessert, having a wonderful time chucking shit at Harry over something called a Thumper Special, which did sound interesting and was hilarious to everybody at the table but Harry.

The Gunner, fresh from his meeting with Father, came in and helped himself to some food. He seemed distracted about something but still made a point of greeting the Twins and The Phantom. He sat with Tyler and Val, deep in conversation, which The Phantom did not overhear, as he could not think of a good reason to drift over and listen.

When lunch ended The Phantom returned to the galley where he began the prep work for supper. As he chopped and diced vegetables he made a mental list of cadets he would visit in the night. Ray was first on the list. His reaction to being blown had made him even more intriguing to The Phantom and he wanted more of Ray's delicious nectar. Next on his list were two of the gunners. The first, with his handsome, broad face, close cropped hair and dynamite ass that rounded his tight, white bell-bottoms a treat, was Brian Venables, the Guard Petty Officer. When making his selection of cadets The Phantom had considered how the individual cadets might react when they woke up to find someone sucking their dicks. He had no worry about Brian, or so he thought, for Brian was the same cadet who last year The Phantom had seen in Boatswain Stores with his dick balls deep in another cadet's mouth, his own mouth avidly sucking and gobbling the other cadet's dick. There would be no problems with Brian.

The second cadet The Phantom considered was Dylan Brereton, who besides being short, slim and a blond-haired vision, conveniently slept in the same barracks block as Brian. He also had a Superman tattoo strategically located under his Fruit of the Looms, which The Phantom wanted to investigate.

Later in the day The Phantom helped Ray and Sandro fix the box lunches that every cadet leaving AURORA was given in lieu of a meal on the plane. This turned out to be a not so good idea. His proximity to Ray, and the thoughts of what he had done to him, and what he planned to do to Brian and Dylan, caused The Phantom to pop a bone of outstanding proportions and when Ray inadvertently brushed against him he had to plead Nature's Call and slip away into the galley heads where he pounded himself into a shattering orgasm.

It was one thing for the Commanding Officer to issue an order. It was sometimes time consuming, difficult and expensive to make it so, as the saying went. It was also one thing for the Supply Officer of HMCS NADEN to have a stash of Number 11 uniforms hidden away somewhere in the bowels of a cavernous warehouse. It was always difficult, and expensive, to prise said uniforms from the clutches of whichever Storekeeper had them in his care. The uniforms - long white trousers, white tunics, shoes and hats - since Unification were no longer issued or worn, and no longer in the supply system, which meant that they could not be obtained freely or legally. To obtain such items required guile, the name of the man who controlled them, and suitable material for barter. The Executive Officer might know the name of the man who controlled the uniforms but The Gunner knew a man who knew the man who had cornered the local market for Captain Morgan's Navy Issue Rum, the medium of exchange in any Naval barter, so after his impromptu drinking session with Father the Gunner hurried off to CFB Comox where he obtained the necessary bribes that Number One would use when next in Victoria.

After lunch, where he arranged with Tyler for all the staff cadets to meet in the Gunroom at 1600, The Gunner joined the Commanding Officer in the Drill Shed where he helped conduct the Passing Out Parade for the General Training Cadets, listened to Father mumble his way through a Queen and Country speech, and helped in handing out the graduation certificates and chromed Boatswain Calls that each boy received for completing the course. Then he had to help Lieutenant Dickensen conduct the cadets to the airport and through the intricacies of boarding White Knuckle Air. After bidding the cadets and the Lieutenant (who was acting as Escorting Officer as far as Trenton AFB and would return to AURORA on Sunday) goodbye, the Gunner returned to AURORA for a short Stand Easy and a much-needed beer with Chef in the galley. He made the mistake of casually mentioning that Doc planned on having The Phantom act as Captain's Tiger, or steward, during the luncheon planned in conjunction with his Golden Jubilee parade. What The Gunner did not know was that Doc had neglected to inform Chef of his plans. Chef produced an eruption of Vesuvian proportions at the news that one of his lambs was being seconded for other duties without his consent. As the cadets scattered Chef launched into an interminable, grumbling lecture about the poltroonery of Medical Officers. The Gunner, assisted by a bottle of Pusser Neats, managed to calm Chef down.

Chef sipped the undiluted dark Navy rum, and mumbled and grumbled a bit. Then he smiled and a strange look came into his eye. "Well, I suppose it will do the lad good to see how the other half lives," he said with a slow smile. "And he will look very handsome and proper in his uniform."

The Gunner did not have a clue what Chef was going on about and he did not particularly care for the strange look in the man's eyes. "What . . . uniform?" he asked carefully.

"Why the uniform you are going to get for him," replied Chef with a grin. He poured The Gunner a double tot and pushed the glass of rum carefully across the table they were sitting at. "After all, Stevie lad, we cannot have the boy serving the brass hats and mucky mucks wearing his grungy cook's whites, now can we?"

The Gunner, who had noted the "we," gave Chef a fishy look. "And just what kind of uniform did you have in mind?"

Chef, who had heard about the new white uniforms being provided for the cadets, had decided that The Phantom would also need something new. He rubbed his nose and gave The Gunner a sneaky grin. "Well, Stevie lad, we do want the boy to look his best so I thought that we could provide him with a proper steward's uniform. He will look quite handsome, I am thinking, and Father would be ever so pleased."

"Again with the we!" thought The Gunner. "Now Chef, how would I get a steward's jacket? How would I know what size to get?" asked The Gunner, temporizing.

"Ah, well, Stevie lad, that is as easy said as done," replied Chef. He pretended to ignore the black look The Gunner gave him and stuck his head into the dining room where he saw The Phantom, Ray and Sandro pretending to be busily cleaning the steam table. "Ah, Phantom, darlin'," cooed Chef.

"Yes, Chef?" asked The Phantom warily. When Chef was cooing like this he was up to something.

"Would you be coming into the galley for a wee moment? The Gunner has need of you."

The Phantom looked at the other two boys and then followed Chef into the galley. "Yes, Gunner?"

Chef did not give The Gunner a chance to answer The Phantom. "Now then, Phantom, a little bird tells me that you are to be the Captain's Tiger." He grinned widely. "A fine, honourable and noble thing it is too!"

"The Captain's what?" asked The Phantom, his eyes wide with surprise.

"The Captain's steward," replied The Gunner with a sour look. "You're to serve him and his lady wife at the luncheon."

The Phantom began to sputter that he knew nothing about being a Captain's Tiger, or a steward.

Chef made a dismissive, airy gesture with his hand. "Stevie will teach you. He served in a stately home of England, so he did," he said. "Now stand up straight, Phantom, for you've to be measured for a proper steward's jacket." His eyes slid slyly over to look at The Gunner. "And a new pair of proper trousers as well, Stevie. The black serge wears like iron and would be best, I'm thinking." Before The Gunner could voice a protest Chef hurried on. "A proper set of navy blue issue trousers, straight-legged they are, and a proper pair of oxfords. You will do us proud, you will."

"I do not know the sizes," growled The Gunner under his breath.

Unfazed, Chef rummaged about in the drawer of his desk and dredged up a tape measure. "I knew this would come in handy one day," he rumbled triumphantly. "Now then, Phantom, stand up straight like the fine lad you are while The Gunner measures you."

Very reluctantly The Gunner took the tape measure and looped it around The Phantom's waist.

The Phantom almost died! As The Gunner leaned around to take his waist measurement he could feel the man's warm breath on his neck and his hair brush against his cheek. He felt a definite thickening between his legs and tried desperately to keep a straight face and to remain calm.

After measuring The Phantom's waist The Gunner knelt down and measured the outer seam of The Phantom's trousers. Then he placed one end of the tape measure along the inseam of The Phantom's trousers, the back of his hand brushing against the boy's testicles, which were hanging low and loose in the boxers he was wearing under the thin cotton cook's trousers.

The Phantom bit his lip to stifle the groan that was building deep in his throat. He could feel his penis reacting to The Gunner's touch. "Oh, God," he thought desperately as he tried to keep his dick under control, "Not now!"

He thought of Amy Jensen, he thought of seeing his brother naked, he thought of Brussels sprouts, anything to take his mind off what The Gunner was doing and what the man was touching. When The Gunner stood up in front of him and began to take his chest measurements he was so desperate to maintain control that he thought of Chef naked! He knew that he was breathing heavily and that he was blushing furiously.

The Gunner noticed nothing. He was too angry with Chef and his machinations to notice The Phantom's reaction to his being measured. He looked on Phantom as one of Chef's lambs, and by default one of his charges. Touching the boy, even with his permission, was unsettling, almost as unsettling as what he was feeling as he touched The Phantom's hard, young body. He quickly finished the measurements and sat down at Chef's table to write out the information he needed. He never noticed The Phantom blushing deep red under his tan, or the slight bulge that had appeared in the boy's trousers.

Chef, however, did notice and cursed himself for his stupidity. He knew that The Phantom had a crush on The Gunner and here he had gone and embarrassed the poor lad no end! He quickly dismissed The Phantom, telling him to go and make sure that the saltshakers in the dining hall were full. He quickly turned away as The Phantom hurried from the galley, his hands firmly held against the erection that bulged the front of his trousers.

"What have I done?" Chef asked himself. "What have I done to that poor lad?"