This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between consenting adult males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends you, do not read any further; and ask yourself why you are at this site.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, although it may be loosely based on real events and people.
If you are under the age of 18 (21 in some areas) and too young to be reading such material or if you are in a locale or country where it is not legal to read such material then please leave immediately and come back when it is legal for you to do so. We'll be glad to have you back.
Copyright 2008 by John Ellison
What follows is the final chapter of this work. I thank all my readers who commented; and a special thanks to my editor, Peter, who made this much better.
A Sailor's Tale
Chapter 12
After dropping Sean off, I drove back to the Barracks, went to my room, made up my rack, crawled under the cool sheets and died. I slept soundly until around 1500 when I awoke. The room, even though all the windows were open, was very close and muggy. I showered and settled down to plow through the pile of papers The Kid had given me only the morning before. It was a no go. The room was far too hot for my liking, and the breeze blowing in from the sea was moist and warm, a portent of a storm brewing.
Since the Barracks was not air conditioned, and not likely to be in my lifetime, I could strip down and suffer, go to the Mess, which was air conditioned, or I could do something about it. Since I wanted to get some work done I decided to do something about it.
I grabbed my chequebook and drove on over to the CANEX, where I paid about ten per cent above market for a window air conditioner, which served me right for being too lazy to drive into Victoria. I also hit the beer store, and picked up a pizza. Food in the Mess Hall on the weekends was usually abysmal, since the place was manned by the most junior Cooks and one pissed-off Cook Petty Officer (Pissed off because he had to work the weekend). Besides, I liked pizza.
Back in my room I loaded up the fridge, wrestled the air conditioning unit into a window, flashed it up, cracked a bottle of beer, and settled back to my reading.
Truth be told, come Monday a.m., I would be a glorified hotel keeper. The info package contained roster sheets, booking sheets, linen inventories, and duty rosters. I was responsible for safety and discipline. I was responsible for cleanliness. My list of duties seemed to go on and on, boiled down to keeping the riffraff out (mainly women), the beds supplied with clean linen, and the heads and washplaces clean.
To assist me I had a staff of five, plus civilian cleaners who came in daily, and cleaned the common areas and the heads and wash places. During the summer and fall training periods I was on duty from 0800 until 1600, and on call for the balance of the day. While the desk was manned until midnight, and we usually knew well in advance how many bodies were expected at any given time on any given day, I had to be available in the event of trouble, or a busload of ratings showing up unannounced, a fight breaking out in one of the rooms, or a drunk being obnoxious.
Permanent residents were mostly low ranking support staff, Cooks, Stewards, Storesmen and the like, who, according to a neatly lettered and laid out Watch and Station Bill, stood one watch (four hours) in 142, manning the desk.
In addition to the Permanent Force roomers, I would also be responsible, from time to time, for transients, notably Sea Cadets. They would be housed in two large rooms separated by a wide corridor, which was known as "Ankle Biter Alley". The rooms held twenty bunks each, and nothing else. Unlike the others, Sea Cadets stood no duty watches, were under curfew - they had to be in no later than 2100 - and cleaned their own spaces.
According to the Booking Rosters we could expect every non-transient cabin to be in constant use until September.
I continued to read well into the night, polishing off the pizza, and sipping beer. I was vaguely aware of the deep rolling thunder of a storm approaching when I crawled into bed, exhausted, and not a little drunk.
Sunday dawned like any other day on the West Coast, with clear skies and a warm sun. The storm that had savaged the base during the night had done nothing to cool the air; in fact it was muggier and more humid than before.
I could hear the air conditioner humming as I stretched and scratched. I got up, showered, and dressed. Shortly after 1100 I left the Barracks and wandered over to the Chiefs' Mess where, for $4.00, I purchased a ticket for brunch. It was good value for money, and was not catered out of the Mess Hall. I loaded my plate with food and walked into the dining room.
Sunday was family day, and more than half the tables were filled with families - wives and kids of the Chiefs and Petty Officers assigned to the Dockyard. It was also open to all ranks, and here and there were families of some of the more senior ratings, and an Officer or two.
I found a small corner table and ate breakfast, and then returned to the Barracks. I automatically checked the sign-in book and saw that six transients had left, with no check-ins. This was about normal for a Sunday. The CF flight from the east would not arrive in Vancouver for several hours and the new "guests" would catch a PWA flight after that, so there would be no check-ins until much later in the day.
I suppose I should have inspected the now-empty transient rooms, but what the hell, it was a Sunday. I returned to my quarters and turned on the television - nothing but televangelists spouting fire and brimstone so I clicked it off.
I bummed around most of the afternoon. I drove to Beacon Hill Park, thinking that a swim would be nice, but the beach was infested with families enjoying a perfect day. I could have gone to either the Chiefs' Mess or the Fleet Club for their afternoon barbecues but I hate barbecue, so I drove into Victoria and stopped at the news stand in the Empress Hotel, bought a shit locker full of newspapers, and returned to the Barracks.
The place was eerily quiet, with no one but the Duty Hand around, which was not surprising. When you live on one of the most beautiful pieces of real estate in the world you don't spend much time in your room. Normal routine for anyone not on duty, and with wheels, or access to them, was to take off up island, or over to Vancouver. On the weekends the Dockyard, and the Barracks, were virtual ghost towns.
I read my papers, wandered over to the Mess Hall for dinner, and then strolled back to the Barracks. I chatted with the Duty Hand for a bit and then, for the first time, went into the office. This was nothing special, the usual desks, chairs and locked filing cabinets.
On the desk that was to be mine was a stack of file folders, on top of which was a neatly typed note that requested me to read the documents and sign them. They were the dreaded DA accounts, which listed, down to the last pail and scrub brush, every item in the Barracks inventory. Beds, dressers, lockers, the whole nine yards. I was responsible and accountable for every item in the accounts.
According to regulations I was supposed to "sight" each and every item detailed in the accounts. Since this would have taken me God knows how long - with no guarantee that everything that was supposed to be there was actually there, I did what every right thinking sailor would have done. I signed off on everything and said a silent prayer that the place would burn down before a muster could be taken.
I went to bed early, and, lulled by the low drone of the air conditioner, was soon asleep, only to be abruptly awakened by an almighty crash.
I sat up with a start and saw a huge, bulky shadow, with what looked like the bowsprit of the HMS Victory jutting out from it, pointing upward at a sharp angle. I blinked the sleep from my eyes but by then the shadow had disappeared into the bathroom. Suddenly the room was flooded with light as the bathroom fixture was turned on. Since my bed was less than 20 feet away, and in a direct line of sight, I saw a young man, just over six feet tall, well muscled where it counted (and an ass to die for) trying to maneuvere the biggest dick this side of a porno flick down to point into the toilet bowl.
The thing had to be all of a foot long, and was very thick - it was actually, as attested by later scientific measurement, 12.1 inches in length and eight inches around, superbly circumcised and looking very smooth and unblemished, save for a thin, straight ring about halfway down the shaft The massive organ hung over a set of well-formed, very large testicles. It was a handsome weapon, built for small ponies and large women.
With a little straining and flexing of his butt cheeks, the owner of this monumental piece of meat let loose with a roaring torrent of urine. >From the size of his penis, and the force of his piss, I figured that if there was ever a fire I had no worries. It's not often you see a two-inch fire hose attached to a human body.
When he had finally emptied his bladder, the strange young man shook his massive hose, shaking loose a few errant drops of urine. With no pressure on his prostate his penis shrank a little. I figured that the floor show was over. He'd had his piss and would go back to bed. Little did I know this was only the introduction. The main act was about to begin.
Now, ordinarily I am no big fan of horse cocks. I like sucking dick, but anything over a mouthful is a waste. Since I didn't have any intention of sucking this beast, and since I am a bit of voyeur, and since from his actions he was about to do more than just piss, I thought, what the hell, I might learn something new. A raging hard-on this size had to be a two-handed job, maybe three. Who knew, I might learn a new technique.
As I watched, the young man stood looking down at his dick, which he held in his right hand. Then he began to slowly stroke himself. His penis rose to its full glory. He stroked slowly, lovingly, his eyes closed, breathing slowly through his nose. He raised his left hand and rubbed two fingers along his pee hole, coating them with his precum. Using his precum as a lubricant his fingers slowly massaged his magnificent mushroom shaped glans. Up, over, around, back over for a new supply, back around and down the shaft.
The skin above his circumcision ring darkened and his testicles constricted. He moved his right hand up to just below the head, and fisted the bottom half of his dick with his left hand. He began to pump his cock with both hands, speeding up slightly. It was still a long, slow pump. He quickened his pace and dropped his left hand to his side, clenching and unclenching it in time with his pumping right hand, clench for stroke. He moved his right hand up again, his forefinger bent and rubbing the underside of his glans. He began to breathe in short, sharp gasps. He bent his knees, and his hand moved faster and faster. He threw his head back and as I watched . . .
His face contorted and he clenched his lips. His body began to quiver and he pushed his massive, distended cock down, pointing directly into the toilet bowl. His thrust his hips forward. His breath stopped and a huge wad of creamy white spooge exploded from his dick and smashed into the water of the toilet bowl.
From the echoing effect of the bowl I thought a depth charge had gone off!
He shot another, then another, stream of semen into the toilet bowl, each time thrusting his hips forward. He must have been saving this load because he continued to shoot massive spurts into the toilet. Each time he pumped a gusher he pushed his hips forward, and as the supply diminished his hip thrusts became less forceful until, at the end, they were just short, quick little thrusts, each spurt of semen smaller and less forceful. Finally, his balls had no more to give. He passed his hand over the top of his dick head, wiping off the last few drops of his ejaculate. He was finished and his dick began to shrink to what was still a man sized piece of meat. He turned to the sink, turned on the water and began to clean his hands
While this strange young man was busy, I turned over in my bed, my back to the bathroom. I figured what the hell, I had enjoyed the show and there was no point in letting on that I had seem him spank the monkey. Far wiser to turn my back and pretend to be asleep. Besides, just watching him service himself had left me exhausted.
The water stopped running. Although I couldn't see him I knew that he was about to get a shock. When he turned to re-enter the bedroom he would have a clear view of the corner bed and a clear view that the bed was not empty. I was right. Just before the light went out I heard a very clear, "Oh Fuck!"
I drifted off hearing a quiet stream of "Oh Fucks!" coming from the other side of the room.
The next morning my internal clock woke me at a few minutes before 0600. I'd been getting up at 0600 every morning for years, and my body had just naturally adjusted to it. I sat up and looked around the room. The other bed was empty, unmade, and with what looked like a remnant sale strewn around it. This offended my sense of good order and discipline. I was quite prepared to suffer in silence a wank every so often in the bathroom, with or without the door closed. I was not prepared to have the room looking like a rubbish tip. I determined to have a chat with my room mate and instil some common mess deck courtesy in him.
Since he wasn't around I got up, and headed toward the bathroom, only to be brought up short as the blaring sound of a bugle reverberated throughout the Barracks. I recognized it as the "Rouse," or, as we called it in the Navy, "Wakey-Wakey." I had been awakened by that same call every morning for 18 weeks when I was in Cornwallis, the Recruit School in Nova Scotia. I'm an old traditionalist when it comes to things Navy and I rather enjoyed hearing the bugle blaring. Bugles had, for the most part, gone the way of all flesh, replaced by the shrill sounds of the Boatswains Call.
As the bugle notes died away I began my morning routine. When I was finished in the bathroom I dressed, or "cleaned" into the rig of the day: dark green trousers, light green, open necked, short-sleeved shirt, mirror shined wingtips. On my way out of the room I picked up my peak cap - also green, and walked into the main lobby. From Ankle Biter Alley I could hear the moans, groans, and assorted noises of a large group of young males when rudely awakened. More noise drifted down from the deck above. The Barracks was waking up.
I walked over to the Mess Hall and ate a leisurely breakfast. Fed and watered, I walked over to the Lower Parade Square, where everybody's working day began. I might be the NCO In Charge of the Barracks, but I still had to attend Divisions.
Divisions is a Naval tradition that goes back to the days of the sailing ship. Essentially it is a way to ensure that everybody is up and functioning and ready to work. Each Division - Deck, Gunnery, Supply, and so on, would report to the Executive Officer, who would report to the Commanding Officer. The flag (in our case, flags - the so-called Maple Leaf Flag - an ill-conceived and poorly designed banner which I never cared for, and the Command Flag), would be raised on the mast-like flagstaff, any special orders or instructions would be read out, and then we would be dismissed to carry on with the work day.
Divisions at Esquimalt were held on the Lower Parade Square. The Upper Parade Square, which was the vast expanse of concrete directly across the road from the Barracks, was used for special parades where large numbers of participants were involved. This happened only once or twice a year, always in the summer, and usually being a Reserve or Sea Cadet graduation parade.
Monday to Thursday Divisions were fairly simple. All officers and ratings not on duty, or at least without a plausible excuse, would muster around the edge of the parade square. Shortly before 0800 the Parade GI would call for markers and the pre-appointed markers would double out to their Divisional marker, which were painted on the concrete square. When the markers were aligned, and in order, the Parade would be ordered to fall in, facing a huge concrete and metal dais, behind which was the flagstaff. Beside the flagstaff was an elderly 12-pound field gun - the Court-martial Gun. The gun was fired each time a court martial board went into formal session.
When everyone was in place the Duty Quartermaster would pipe the "Still" on his call, the flags would go up and, if there was a Court Martial beginning that morning, the gun would be fired. Any special orders or instructions would be read out, including who was being Court-martialed, and why, and then we were dismissed. All in all it took about an hour. Sometimes less if there were no announcements. Once we were dismissed we then went our many ways.
Friday morning was hell. Friday was Ceremonial Divisions. We would clean into Number l's, there would be a 100-man Guard, and the Band would march from the School of Music, along the road separating the Barracks Blocks, down the ramp separating the two parade squares and, crashing and thumping out a martial air, take up their position. If the majority of the bandsmen weren't too hung over they didn't sound too bad. The Chaplains, resplendent in cassock, snowy white surpluses, and Naval stole, would stroll out and take up their position. A work party would amble out, each member carrying a varnished and painted drum. They would form an Altar of Drums in front of the dais and disappear. The pecker checkers and stretcher bearers (usually Sea Cadets) would position themselves strategically around the square. They would go into action when anyone fainted (or pretended to).
The Band would play the Anthems ("Oh Canada" and "God Save The Queen"), the Flags would be raised. The Chaplains, three of them - C of E, RC, and a Rabbi, would pray, the Band would play the Naval Hymn and only then would the Base Commander's staff car drive up to the dais.
The Base Commander, a miserable four-ringer, owed his position to knowing when to bend in the prevailing wind. Up until 1969 he had been "Blue" Navy. After 1969 he was "Green" and he enforced every directive from Ottawa, no matter how outlandish or foolish. If the then Minister of Defense (whose grave I will live long enough to piss on!) said shit, our gallant CO was there to wipe his slimy butt. To the old hands, who loved and cherished the Old Navy, he was a Queen's Hard Bargain, and more or less ignored. To the new hands, who hadn't known anything but the "New" Navy, he was a prick, and more or less ignored.
The CO would then, depending of his level of grumpiness, and trailed by hangers-on unto the ninth generation, and the ship's cat, inspect the Ship's Company. Usually, this meant just the Guard, although on some mornings he had a fit of responsibility and inspected everything in sight. On a good day we averaged two hours, and a dozen fainters. On a bad day, when the old fucker inspected everybody, it took a good three hours and upwards of twenty or so casualties. It wasted the morning and guaranteed a full house at the Fleet Club at lunch.
Normal Divisions over - without, I might add, the members of the Barracks Staff - I went to work.
When I arrived at the Barracks and entered the office I found the hands all lined up. They were clean, shaved, and didn't smell of booze, so I figured the day had gotten off to a good start. I introduced myself and put out my hand to the first man in line, a Leading Seaman Admin type, whom, in a way I had met during the night. I hesitated a moment - I knew what he'd been doing with the hand he thrust at me, then remembered he'd washed it - and shook the hand of "Bob, Bob the Writer." He was about 25 years old, well turned out, and bespectacled. He wore an ugly pair of black horn-rimmed glasses - without which he could barely see to navigate. For some reason he wouldn't make eye contact as we shook hands.
While Bob the Writer was almost a total stranger to me, the other members of the staff were not. Much to my delighted surprise three of them were Reservists and had been my trainees. They were Jordan and Jason Fitzroy, identical twins, and "Little" George Gaebler. Marc Worden, the fourth lad, was a Regular, whom I knew very slightly. Jordan and Jason were 19, Little George 20, and Marc an elderly 23.
As noted, the Fitzroy Twins were alike as two peas in a pod. They were the same height, 5'8", weighed the same, 160 pounds, with square-jaws, sort of an Arrow Collar man in uniform. They had bright, dancing brown eyes and naturally curly black hair. This they kept buzzed on the side and back, with the top teased and combed and brushed just so. I think they used a jar of Vaseline every morning. They both had hard-muscled, trim forms with broad chests that tapered to slim waists and firm, muscular legs. They had ready smiles and more or less permanent tans, which was not surprising in that they spent every lunch hour sun bathing - naked - on the roof of the barracks.
Because they were identical twins, and because they were known to be scamps, and often pretended to be the other, they were the only sailors who had the last three digits of the official numbers (actually their SIN numbers) included with their last names on their name tags. Jason was "Fitzroy 997" and Jordan "Fitzroy 998", and at Roll Call always referred to as such. They had been born and raised in Vancouver.
The Twins were the Barracks dog's bodies. During the day they drove either the passenger van or the quarter-ton truck, assigned to the Barracks. They drove for me, and for the other Barracks NCO's, shuttled people to and from the airport, picked up supplies, and so on. When they weren't out they would hang around the office, bickering as brothers will do, or admiring each other. They were very much in love with each other, and shared a room together. I had known for quite some time that they were gay. They didn't advertise it, seemingly only had eyes for each other, and didn't bother anyone. It was more or less accepted that they were a couple. As long as they were discreet I did not foresee a problem. They were on what was called "Class C" Service, filling Permanent Force billets that could not be filled except by employing Reserves. Actually, it was cheap way of filling the gaps. Being Reservists they earned about seventy-five percent of what a Permanent Force sailor would be paid.
With the manpower shortage the Navy was prepared to overlook their perceived failings. These two I would have to keep an eye on, however. I knew from past experience that they were totally indifferent to anything involving discipline. When I first knew them they were constantly in trouble. Nothing serious, just enough to piss you off. It was sort of like living with two very curious chimps.
Little George Gaebler was hardly little. He stood 6' 6" tall, and weight 300 pounds if he weighed an ounce, all of it solid muscle. He had a firm, muscular body, with a perfectly formed butt that strained the fabric of his uniform pants. He was blessed with the rosy complexion of the truly healthy young male, and had dark brown hair, which he kept long on top and teased into a sort of a pompadour. His most arresting features were his eyes, which were so dark brown they were almost black, with long, silken lashes.
Unlike the Fitzroy Twins, I had yet to see Little George naked, although I can attest that he was "proportional" in all things. I once had occasion to wake him up and saw outlined under the thin fabric of his tighty whiteys (the only underpants he wore) a most magnificent, thick, obviously circumcised, erection.
Little George was a farm boy from Saskatchewan. He was also as straight as an arrow, and very religious. He went to chapel every Sunday. He rarely swore, never drank, and did not smoke. He had a girlfriend whom he adored, and they had an "understanding", and aside from a chaste goodnight kiss, nothing sexual had occurred between them. Both were virgins and saving themselves for marriage. How Little George managed to stay out of the clutches of the Fitzroy Twins I often wondered. I think fear of what Little George would do to them if they tried anything had a lot to do with it.
Little George was the Storesman, and during the day he handed out, and took in, the hundreds of pieces of bed linen issued and returned by the Barracks occupants. Like Jason and Jordan he was a Reservist on Class "C" Service.
Marc Worden was a Navy brat from Toronto, stood about 5'8" and had brown hair. He had a lean, compact body, with an open oval-shaped face, and slightly overlarge, jugged ears. He was tightly muscled from years of playing lacrosse, with a magnificent tan.
Marc was the Duty Electrician and he spent much of his day wandering the building (and the adjacent Nelles Block), replacing dead light bulbs and jury-rigging repairs to the aging barracks blocks' wiring.
He was quieter than the other boys, yet friendly and had warm, hazel eyes that lit up when he smiled. I was quite smitten with him and more than once almost lost my composure when he smiled shyly at me when I told him one of my dirty jokes or chucked shit at him. This one I had to be careful with. He was very gung-ho. His work uniform was always immaculate, stiffly starched, and ironed to perfection. His hair was cut so short he looked shaven and would have made the Parade GI's diseased old heart go pitty-pat with delight. He was the most "Pusser" sailor I had seen outside of the Gunnery School in many a day. He was gaiters without the gate. My Stevie Straight-Arrow routine went into overdrive.
I shook hands in turn with all of them. I gave them a pep talk, basically an "England expects . . ." speech.
It was the usual bullshit speech and they knew it. When I turned around Jordan would look at Jason, who would shrug as if to say, "Here we go again!" Marc would stare at the deck and shake his head. Little George scratched himself. Only Bob the Writer seemed to be paying attention. What the goofy things didn't realize was that there was a mirror attached to the bulkhead right beside them and I could see everything they did. They were not prepared when I segued into my "Gotcha" speech.
"Gentlemen," I began, "I am sure that anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a fair, but firm man."
Three heads nodded their agreement.
"They will also tell you," I continued, "that I expect what I give: professionalism to the job."
The same three heads nodded their agreement.
"Now, I know that all of you are professionals. Which leads me to ask the question: why, when I came aboard on Friday afternoon all the professionals were off gigoloing up island?"
The Fitzroy Twins winced, Mark hung is head, Little George rubbed one well formed butt cheek and Bob the Writer blushed! They now knew that I knew that they had skived off on Friday.
"Being professionals, I think you will all agree that The Kid should be compensated for his doing your job."
Five heads nodded reluctantly.
"To that end I think it would be nice if the next five times his name comes up for a duty watch one of you would deem it an honour to stand in for him."
Bob the Writer nodded. As Barracks Writer he kept the Watch and Station Bill up to date. He would "make it so". Four heads turned and four sets of eyes glared at him. They couldn't do much. I had them cold and they knew it.
"It also occurs to me that as professionals you must all set an example for the other ratings that come to stay here."
No nods, they were leery of me now. "Which means, of course, that you must, in all things be above reproach. Your quarters, for instance," and I looked at Bob the Writer, "your personal quarters must be immaculate. No fuss, no muss."
Bob hung his head and nodded slightly. Four heads turned and stared at him. They didn't know what I was talking about. He did.
"In addition, as professionals, you are all aware that we all have our little idiosyncrasies. I am not unaware that from time to time you all have special needs. You are all, after all, young men, and all young men have special needs. I am also not unaware that from time to time you might feel it necessary to satisfy those needs."
Jason glared at Jordan, who glared at Jason. Little George blushed and Marc seemed totally confused. Bob the Writer stiffened to the extent that I was afraid he would do himself an injury.
"Frankly, gentlemen, what you do does not concern me . . ." I paused and then added sharply, "So long as you do it behind closed doors!"
Bob the Writer opened his mouth, about to say something. I motioned him to keep silent.
"Let's get some work done around here, gentlemen," I said, dismissing them.
The office was vacated at a great rate of knots, except for Bob the Writer, who was stuck with me.
The morning passed in a maze of papers and telephone calls. The Fitzroy Twins had grabbed their run sheets and disappeared. Marc found a work order that required his immediate attention and he disappeared. Little George disappeared in the direction of Linen Stores where he suddenly discovered that he had to muster all the blankets in the place.
Bob the Writer went about his duties. It did not take me long to realize that he was a master of his trade, a true craftsman who loved paperwork. He had a mind like a steel trap and knew exactly who was in what cabin, their trade, and when they were due to leave. He knew how many cabins were occupied, and how many vacant. The Watch and Station Bill was up to date, each square neatly filled in. His files were as neat as any I had ever seen. He knew exactly where each file was located in the cabinets. He could type about sixty words a minute, without a strike over and no erasures. If I asked him for a form it appeared as if by magic. How the Flag Building had missed this gem was a mystery.
Bob worked quietly, filing, typing, and, as needed, placing forms and papers on my desk telling me quietly what they were, and what I was expected to do with them. He was very polite and twice asked my permission to go to the heads. At noon he asked permission to go for lunch. When he returned he resumed his seat at his desk and carried on working.
The afternoon was, if anything, busier. The clerks and writers in the other buildings had been busy and the pile of paper in my In Basket grew higher. Demands for accommodation, cancellation of accommodations, accommodation rosters, demands for supplies to be requisitioned. Every piece had to be logged and actioned. Little George brought in his demands for linen. Jason and Jordan appeared at irregular intervals, picking up new transportation orders, and usually bickering over whose turn it was to drive. There was only one van, so one was "brains" and the other "muscle", although I never knew which Twin was doing what! Marc came in and checked all the light fixtures. They addressed each other by rank. They were all polite, and very formal, with each other and with me.
I might have been impressed if I hadn't seen Jason punch Jordan's shoulder when they the left the office and give him a silent, nodding grin. If they thought their little act was fooling me they didn't know me very well.
At 1600 Bob the Writer locked the filing cabinets and put the cover over his typewriter. Our work day had ended. He shut the office door and walked to my desk.
"Um . . . PO," he began, "I, um, cleaned up the room. It won't happen again," he gulped. "And I'm sorry for knocking over the chair. I didn't have my glasses on." He fingered his horned rims. "I . . . um . . . I hope I didn't wake you."
"You didn't wake me," I lied. I looked up at him. He would not meet my gaze. "Is there anything else?"
"Well . . ." he hesitated, "I . . . um . . . I'll keep the door closed." He was very embarrassed. "I won't do it again." What it was I could imagine. Not being one to put a crimp in anybody's sex life, I leaned back in my chair and looked directly at him.
"Leading Seaman, you do what you have to do," I said. "I do however, have one question."
"PO?"
I leaned forward, and gave him my best shit eater grin.
"Just how big is that thing of yours?"
"Hard or soft?" he answered without thinking. Then he covered his face with his hands and shook his head.
I started laughing. I laughed so hard I all but fell out of the chair. Bob didn't know if he should shit or salute. He stood there, grinning like a loon, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
He opened his mouth to speak and I had another fit of laughter. I held up my hand, and managed, to compose myself.
"Enough already." I wiped the tears from my eyes. "Boychick, you take the prize!" I stood up and offered my hand. "Friends?"
He nodded. "Friends." We shook hands. Then we both started laughing.
When we had recovered I picked up my hat. "I'm going to the Mess. I need a drink. Tell those Barracks Stanchions to come alongside after supper. I'm buying the beer."
Our beer bash was monumental. The Twins, Marc and Little George, who conveniently forgot his religious fervour in favour of free Molson's Export Ale, forgave me all my sins, and we had a hell of a good time.
Bob the Writer proudly informed us that his dick was 9 and ¾ inches long soft, and 12 and 1/10th inches "when it's angry". The Fitzroy Twins offered to measure Little George, who resolutely refused to allow them anywhere near his family jewels, and sat with his legs firmly closed. Marc went into a snit when the Fitzroy Twins didn't ask to measure his treasure, and when they offered to correct the oversight he sniffed and told them that it was too late, and they could go on guessing.
Little George, who managed to pack away more beer than a thirsty camel, so forgot his Evangelicalism as to sing "The Harlot of Jerusalem" (which I had taught him), and Marc passed out. The Fitzroy Twins, as stealthy as cats, slithered over, tape measure in hand. I, however, in a moment of ill-advised prudishness, stopped them. I told them it wouldn't count because Marc was passed out, and unable to defend himself, and besides, beer made your dick shrink. They pretended to believe me and returned to their seats.
It was a pleasant, if very wet, evening. Since I had not tied one on since that night with Jim, I was massively hung over next morning. As were the rest of them. None of us made it to Divisions and I don't think we were missed.
Despite my hangover I began the routine I would follow - more or less - from now on. I would read through the overnight messages and signals, read Routine Orders, listen to Bob cursing under his breath some nameless clerk who had fucked up some piece of paper or other, and then, clipboard in hand, go off and do my Parish Rounds.
I walked the decks and noted any deficiencies in cleaning and the like. I stayed well away from the permanently occupied cabins - the ratings who lived in them didn't have all that much in the way of comfort and I felt that I should at least respect their space - and inspected the Reserve cabins, transient cabins, and Ankle Biter Alley, looking for damage, making sure that the rooms were neat and clean, and so on. Unmade beds, overflowing waste baskets, clothes left out, were all cause for a "chit", which I would write out and leave on the offender's bed.
Ankle Biter Alley and the Transient Quarters were given a more than casual glance. If these spaces were a mess - and they usually were, I was supposed to write up another chit and send it off to the Base Accommodation Officer, who would send a report off to the offenders' home unit. I emphasize supposed to, because no one really gave a fuck anymore.
Unification had fucked the Services. Instead of distinctive uniforms for each arm of the service, with their own rank and trade badges, their own identity, we all wore the same uniforms. The customs and traditions I had grown up with were long gone. Pride and professionalism had been replaced by apathy and a decidedly civilian outlook when it came to the work ethic. The work day was from 0800 to 1600, Monday to Friday, weekends off. Except for the few offices that had to be manned 24 hours a day, and Duty Watches on board the ships, everything shut down at 1600. Duty Watches were annoying and an inconvenience, especially on the weekends, and especially for those who lived off base.
At 1600 the offices would empty. At 1600 the ships tied up along side would empty (1530 if the Officer of the Day wasn't looking), and the exodus began. You took your life in your hands if you tried to cross Esquimalt Road at this time, the traffic was so heavy. Nobody worked "overtime" if they could help it. If they did, they had to be given "compensating time off". Which meant that when the Fitzroy Twins took a group of Officer Cadets up to the Comox Glacier for the Venture Training phase of their course, which they did every Monday morning, they never got back much before 2200 or 2300 and could then claim, and sometimes did, a half day to compensate them for their "extra" time worked.
This mind set was endemic in every branch of the Service. This was not surprising. There were very few of the old Navy types still around. The older hands - the vets of W.W.II and Korea - would have nothing to do with the ruination of "their" Navy and voted with their feet. From Admirals to career Able Seamen, they had got out as soon as the paperwork could be completed. This left a vacuum that could not be filled. The new hands knew nothing of the old days. Which was sad. What had been a vocation was now just a job.
But I digress (whine mode kicked in, sorry).
My inspections taught me a firm lesson in just how bad things had become. The old Navy always taught us that you left a ship or a mess cleaner than it was when you moved in. Now the transient rooms and Sea Cadet Quarters would be littered with the flotsam and jetsam of hasty departures. Newspapers and magazines predominated. I also found odd socks, a jock strap once, briefs and boxers tossed into corners and forgotten, and skin books of every description, ranging from pussy and tits to hard core male/female fucking. No gay skin books - nothing queer about this man's Navy.
I would scoop these up and take them away. The cleaning staff was mostly older Chinese ladies who would not have appreciated the literature being read at night.
I sometimes wondered just what the hell the Sea Cadets and young transients did at night - mass jerk offs was my guess, and I sometimes wondered if the story about the "Phantom Wanker of Aurora" was true.
HMCS Aurora was the main Sea Cadet training base on the West Coast, and located on a spit of land jutting into Comox harbour. Rumour had it that someone - no names, although everybody seemed to have a perpetrator in mind - would sneak into the barracks in the dark of night and masturbate sleeping cadets. What intrigued me was that no one admitted knowing anyone who had been the recipient of the stranger's kindness, and no one ever admitted actually having been given a hand job. Nice Canadian boys would never submit to such thing! Or tell about it if they did!
In the event, I would give the books to the Fitzroy Twins to add to their already impressive collection of porno magazines, although I knew that they didn't read the things. Even twins need their camouflage. They left them strategically placed in their room on Inspection Day - which happened once a month - to be found by the Inspecting Officer, usually the Supply Officer, a nice old duffer who told me he always enjoyed inspecting the Barracks because that way he could keep up in the latest trends in smut and pornography. He also opined that if the Fitzroy Twins didn't look out they'd end up wearing glasses.
Most of what I found ended up in the dumpster. Articles of obvious value - I once found a super pair of binoculars - were logged and kept under lock and key until they were claimed. After thirty days they were up for grabs.
The rest of the day I spent shuffling papers and directing traffic. At 1600 the office closed, the building filled up and emptied as the troops went about their night routines.
My relations with the boys became warmer as the weeks passed. After standing around on Friday Ceremonial Divisions being demeaned and abused (and we didn't even have to take our clothes off) by the Commanding Officer, I told them that they had more important things to do and to skip the whole issue. I wasn't planning on going in the near future, so why should they? Eventually we packed in morning Divisions. We were just too damn busy.
Life in the Barracks was not all peace and quiet, however. On more than one occasion the PWA flight from Vancouver was delayed, which meant either Bob or I had to put in an appearance and handle the paperwork. One night, two minesweepers on night exercise (what the hell they were doing in the middle of the night is beyond me) collided, and had to be towed in for repairs and I ended up with 60 guys, all looking for a bed. I rousted Bob and Little George out of their beds, Bob for the paperwork, Little George to open up Linen Stores.
The guys from the sweeps had just started to fill the lobby when the Fitzroy Twins decided to have a domestic in the rec. room. They were beating the hell out of each other when I arrived (Jason had a mean left hook). I separated them, kicked them both in the ass and sent them up top to help Little George and Bob. When the dust settled - about 0400 - I banished them to separate rooms - which pissed them right off. I let them pout for three days, and then made them shake hands (a useless gesture; they weren't mad at each other, they were mad at me) and told them they could go back to rooming together. To teach me a lesson they pouted for another day.
On another occasion two courses in Halifax for Officer Cadets were cancelled. Of course they were sent to Esquimalt. They all ended up on my patch because the Wardroom and the Annex were full, as was HMCS Cape Scott, the depot ship. Marc, Little George and I spent two days scrounging beds and we ended up putting extra two-decker bunks in all the Reserve Cabins, which pissed everybody off, the ratings because they had to bunk with Officer Cadets, the Officer Cadets because they had to bunk with the ratings. I told them all to lump it or sleep on the beach.
To make matters worse, that summer was the hottest in years. The sun beat down on the flat roof of the Barracks and the place was an oven. When the hands weren't moaning and dripping about their accommodations, they whined about the heat. There wasn't much anyone could do about it. The place wasn't air conditioned and the Navy sure as hell wasn't about to put any in. I managed to scrounge two old units from one of Joel's cousins, and it cost me three 40-pounders of rum to have them installed by the Chippy-Chaps (Shipwrights) in the rec. room. Which meant that it became a substitute for the cabins everyone was supposed to sleep in.
Every night it seemed that half the Barracks was down there dossing down on the leatherette sofas or on mattresses they had taken from their rooms. The rec. room was a hell of a lot cooler than the cabins up top, but still there was grumbling and it did not help matters when the Twins appointed themselves walking wake-up calls, which ended when Jordan poked Harry the Farmer in the balls with an iron marlin spike. Harry the Farmer, a huge, muscular boy from Manitoba, was one of those people whom it was almost impossible to wake up. He never heard the pipe, and if anyone tried to shake him he would come up swinging. Anyway, he did not take kindly having his balls so assaulted, woke up with a roar, and, clad only in his white cotton briefs, and swearing vengeance, chased the Twins out of the Barracks and across the Upper Parade Square. Unfortunately there was a huge Sea Cadet parade being formed up at the time . . . More paperwork and a stern lecture to all hands.
I dug into my savings and paid through the nose for two window units, an additional one for the bedroom and one for the office. At least Bob and I could sleep and work in comfort. This, of course, caused much grumbling from the Fitzroy Twins, both permanently barred from sleeping in the rec. room, and when Little George and Marc started whining I told them all they could kip in the living room if their cabins got too hot. They wasted no time in taking me up on my offer.
The little bastards practically moved in. The Twins discovered that the sofa could be converted into a bed, and slept there, while Little George and Marc found some old roll-up cots. The place looked like a flop house for most of the summer.
Most weekends everybody took off for cooler climes. Marge had wangled a transfer to the Recruiting Office in Vancouver and was living full time with Butch, so I had a ready excuse to go over to the mainland, and I did go a couple of times, when Joel was in town. Most weekends I just stayed in and enjoyed the solitude.
In a way I was glad to see the tail end of the lads. Bob slept in the nude (he had a great tan and no tan lines) and invariably woke up with an erection. The other four thought nothing of lounging around the place in their underwear, not to mention that when I shook them awake in the morning at least one, and on occasion, all four were standing tall. Then I had to listen to them bitch while waiting to take their turn in the bathroom. It was all very stressful.
Thinking about it now, it was as if each of the boys had been hand-picked by The Manning Office just for me. Little George, Jason and Jordan, were, I knew from past sightings in the training ship, circumcised. The Twins were identical in every respect, and each had had just a hint of a ridge of skin under their pink mushrooms. Both had very tasty looking low-hanging testicles, which were, to be honest, a bit on the small side).
Little George was smooth from base to knob with a surprisingly well-defined circumcision ring. He too had a very nice set of testicles - not huge for his overall size, not too small - just about right, I thought.
At first I could only wonder if Marc was a brother of the ring. They all lived, and showered on the second deck and there was no legitimate reason for me to be lurking about the washplace to check him out. Fortunately for my reputation he put in for a two day pass and filled out a Next of Kin form. This was something we all had to do whenever we went on leave. The Navy wanted to be able to send a Chaplain of the right denomination to your folks if you OD'd or drove into a tree or something. It turned out that Marc was Jewish. There was a God.
Needless to say, they drove me crazy. Like just about everyone else, they wore tight cotton briefs under their pants, which gave each of them a nice, compact basket, and, when they bent over, compacted their butts into glorious twin orbs.
Like everyone else they hated the green uniforms we were forced wear, and lost no time in changing. This usually meant shorts or cut-offs, and T-shirts, with or without sleeves. Since they had the run of my quarters, they usually ended up there most nights, watching television and drinking my beer - evilly I kept the fridge full. They would lie around, on the furniture, on the floor, arms and legs akimbo. Sometimes they kept their tees on, more often than not they went bare-chested. Only Marc had hair on his chest, not much but dark and lightly spread across his pecs. He, along with Little George, had treasure trails of hair extending beyond the waistbands of their shorts, spiralling upward toward their navels. The Fitzroy Twins had no hair on their chests, and fine, black fuzz on their arms and legs.
They would all laze around, drinking beer, and chucking shit at each other. They would talk queer, especially when Bob the Writer was around. He normally wore oversize boxers which, on the whole, covered his prize dick - except when he stretched, or sat down, usually with his legs spread. Everything would fall out, or the fabric would ride up, exposing a good portion of his penis, and all of his testicles. He had, I admit, a very good body, well muscled, and very firm. The other boys would admire his chest and ass, and compliment him on the size of his balls. He grumbled privately about it, but I sure as hell don't recall him running away, or putting on long pants.
Little George and Marc usually wore sport type shorts, the ones with the built in support. These showed off their baskets, their smooth, oval balls, pink under the white nylon fabric, with tiny dark hairs curling out from the leg bands.
The Fitzroy Twins wore plain, run of the mill, white cotton gym shorts, which were part of their kit issue. They had no tan lines - they lived in the sun and every lunch hour they would sunbathe on the flat roof. They very rarely wore underpants. When they did, they both wore briefs of the same color, blue, white, and once, fire engine red. More often than not they wore nothing under their shorts. When they sat down and spread their legs, which seemed to be their favourite position, their genitals were on full view, each set encased in fine, black, curly pubic hair. As I have said, they were circumcised, with their darkish rings clearly visible. Their dicks were identical, both of them were the same length and thickness, with smooth, mushroom helmets ringed with a tantalizing ridge of skin. Their ball sacs were smooth and hung low, well below their dick heads.
The Twins were not at all embarrassed. Quite the contrary. They were deliberately teasing the rest of us - all of whom they thought were straight. Titillating and teasing a straight was a game for them, a game they could only play with people they trusted. Little George and Marc seemed indifferent, and usually tossed ice cubes at whatever offending penis was in view. Bob the Writer, who in his own way was just as much an exhibitionist as the Twins, pretended not to notice. When he did, and the Twins saw him glancing down at their crotches - and they always caught him - they would grin broadly. Bob would blush deeply and the Twins knew they had won another round in the game. Guy stuff.
The only fully clothed person in the place was myself! I kept my T-shirt and baggy old shorts firmly on and always wore boxers. I kept my dick firmly in my pants.
Most nights we would laze around talking and, usually, watching some sport on TV, swearing at the refs or umpires, armchair quarterbacking, and drinking beer. Some nights we played cards, arguing and swearing at each other and the cards.
No harm meant, no harm done. Guy stuff.
With the end of August came peace, quiet, and a return to normalcy. The Reserves went home. The Sea Cadets went home. The Officer Cadets, finally, went home. The Barracks was half empty and would remain that way until the next training season in April.
As my release date approached I began to make plans for my new life in the real world. Joel came over from Vancouver, talked me into investing some of my money in the firm he worked for, and persuaded me to come and stay in California for a while. There was nothing waiting for me back in Ontario, so I agreed.
The seasons turned, barely noticed. A little more rain, a little less sun. Before I knew it December rolled around. Time for me to swallow the anchor.
On December 22nd I spent the day doing my Out Routine. I had signed everything that had to be signed. My kit was returned, my final pay in my pocket. My plane ticket was bought. My bags were almost packed. Tomorrow I would close one chapter in my life and begin a new one.
The Barracks were eerily quiet. It was Christmas Leave time and everyone who could had wangled leave to go home. Bob the Writer had been gone for two days - home to Calgary. I had the rooms to myself. I undressed and threw the green uniform in the trash basket. I wanted no reminders of the CAF.
I puttered about in my boxers and socks, finishing my packing, leaving a note for the guy who would move in after the New Year. With nothing else to do I settled back with a beer and watched some TV. I had another beer, turned the dial on the TV and found a Christmas Show, all carols and choir boys. I turned the volume down low, and was nestled into my chair for a quiet night in when there was a light tap and the door opened. It was the Fitzroy Twins. They walked across the room and stood in front of me, two good looking bare chested beach boys in shorts.
"We've come . . ." began Jordan.
"To say goodbye," finished Jason.
"We have . . ." said Jordan.
"Two gifts," finished Jason.
"Gifts? What kind of gifts?" I replied, intrigued.
Jordan pointed at Jason. Jason pointed at Jordan.
"Us."
They dropped their shorts. I hoped this wasn't a joke. It wasn't.
Jason dropped to his knees in front of me and spread my legs, Jason moved to the side of the chair and leaned over. We kissed hungrily while Jason reached in and pulled my rising cock through the slit in my boxers. He felt the base of my dick and massaged my balls, then reached up and pulled on the boxers. I raised my hips and he pulled them down and off.
I felt his warm mouth kissing the tip of my penis, and then engulfing it, and sliding slowly down. My dick began to throb as Jason deep throated me. Jordan began to massage my chest, then rubbed my hardened nipples. I reached down and began to rub the back of Jason's head, feeling the hard bristles at the back, then the longer, silky hair on the top. With my other hand I reached over and took Jordan's dick in my hand. It was rock hard, and it jumped a little when I touched it. I stroked him and then made a fist just under the head. I massaged it with my thumb. He began to ooze precum and I gently massaged his mushroom. Around, under, over, just a slow, gentle rub. He began to lick my chest and nipples, moved up and buried his face in my neck, sucking and kissing.
Jason was an expert. He sucked and licked up and down my shaft and over its head. I could feel the cum starting to boil in my balls. I was nearing an explosion and warned Jason. His lips tightened around my dick head and he began to suck in quick, sharp movements with his moist, warm mouth. I lubed my thumb with a new supply of Jordan's precum and quickened my rubbing. His head was buried in my neck and he started to moan softly, his breath coming in short, quick, gasps. His hips gave a short, quick thrust, then another. I kept my hand firmly under the head of his dick and rubbed harder. Another thrust and a blast of cum shot forward from his piss hole and landed on my chest. He made small, mewing noises as his dick pulsed again and again. More cum blew from his dick and dribbled down the front of my hand.
As Jordan began shooting I lost all control and exploded. Jason sucked eagerly as I pumped wad after wad into his mouth. The feeling was indescribably wonderful as he sucked and sucked, taking every drop I had. He continued to suck and lick me as my dick softened. Jordan lay on my chest, breathing heavily, his lips buried in my neck. Finally he stood up and stared at me.
I stared back, raised my hand, and slowly licked his cum from my fingers. He reached over and caressed my face. He smiled gently, then leaned over and kissed me, his tongue tasting his own cum and my saliva. I pushed him gently away and sat up.
Jason was sitting back on his heels. He was still hard, his pink-tipped dick pointing upward. I leaned forward and pulled him to his feet. I fingered his dick, rubbing my fingers down the shaft, and felt his balls. Then I leaned forward and took him in my mouth.
His dick was just the right size for sucking. I moved my mouth down his shaft and buried my nose in the hair at the base of his cock. He smelled clean and fresh, with just a hint of talcum powder. His dick tasted even better. He began to move his hips and his rod slid smoothly in and out. I put my hand on his hips and stopped him. I wanted to suck him off. He stood there while I massaged his balls and licked him. I tongued the underside of his cock, from the base of the head down to his balls. I took one, then the other, then both of his balls in my mouth, sucking eagerly. His dick bounced gently. I returned to sucking him and fondling his balls, which tightened rapidly. He was breathing through clenched teeth, sharp, wet sounds. My mouth felt his dick thicken. I let go of his balls and concentrated on his mushroom. He pushed forward and grunted, and his cum began shooting down my throat. I sucked harder and more and more cum gushed out. I sucked and swallowed every drop of ambrosia he could give me.
I had been so engrossed in sucking Jason I hadn't noticed that Jordan had moved behind his brother and placed his once again hard dick in Jason's butt crack. He rubbed his dick against Jason's ass, pumping slowly at first, then quicker as Jason began to reach his climax. Jordan had his hands on Jason's shoulders and matched his pace with my sucking. Within seconds of Jason's cumming, Jordan blew another load onto his brother's back.
Jason leaned forward and rubbed my back and neck as I sucked him clean. He reached around and felt Jordan's dick, then wiped the cum from his back. He straightened a little and rubbed Jordan's cum on my lips. We kissed, exchanging cum and spit.
We drew apart and then Jason sat between my legs, his head on my thigh, his hand stroking my still tight ball sac. Jordan sat on the arm of the chair, put an arm around my shoulder, and nuzzled my neck. I reached over and held his balls and cock in my hand. They were still heated from our sex.
"You like this," said Jordan firmly. His tongue licked my ear and he held his head close to mine.
"You like it a lot." said Jason. He kissed my mushroom and tongued my piss hole.
"We could tell." Jordan rubbed my nipples. "We can always tell."
"You can?"
"Yes." said Jordan. He sat back and looked at me. "We knew you liked us." He shrugged. "We liked you, but we had to be careful."
"I understand." I said slowly. "Boy, do I understand."
"Good," said Jason. "Now we can make up for lost time." He leaned down and took my dick in his mouth. Jordan lowered his head and began sucking my chest.
Suddenly the door opened and Little George and Marc were in the room. Jason, Jordan and I jerked up our heads and stared at them staring at us.
"Oh fuck." I muttered.
Little George looked at Marc, then looked at us. Together they unbuttoned their shorts and let them fall down around their ankles. "Party Time." Little George grinned.
"Party time?" I gasped, scarcely believing my eyes as I watched both Marc and Little George strip down to their underpants, Little George wearing tighty-whiteys and Marc standard issued boxers.
"Sure," replied Little George as he reached into his briefs and adjusted what was becoming a burgeoning erection. He grinned wickedly at me.
Not quite believing what I heard, I began sputtering. "But George . . . you're straight! You go to church! You have a girlfriend! You're saving yourself for marriage!" The lascivious look on Little George's face was complimented by eyebrow waggling. I couldn't believe it, and added, "You're a virgin!"
Little George cackled. "Not since the night of your beer bash." He looked at Marc, who blushed redly.
"Sonofabitch!" snapped Jordan. He glared at Marc. "You seduced him!"
"Took advantage of a drunken sailor!" added Jason.
"Did not!" returned Marc angrily. Then he smiled shyly at Little George. "Other way around if you want to know the truth."
"We do!" growled Jordan. Then he looked daggers at Little George. "You wouldn't let us touch you!" he accused.
"You were too eager," returned Little George flatly. "I like to be wooed!"
I broke out laughing. "Wooed? You like to be wooed?"
Little George grinned widely. "Sure." He regarded the Fitzroy Twins a moment. "They were always after my ring, trying to catch me in the shower, always lookin' up the leg of my shorts!"
"Small potatoes and few in the hill if you ask me," sniffed Jordan, miffed that Marc had scored first.
"Nobody did!" returned Jason, giving his twin a sharp jab in the ribs. He wanted to do much more than look up the legs of Little George's shorts!
Little George did not reply at once. He slowly lowered the front of his tightys, revealing a thick, straight, circumcised penis crowned by a firm, sleek head. "Small? Potatoes?" he grinned as his penis bounced seductively as he flexed his butt muscles.
"Oh, Jesus!" moaned Jason.
"Maaaan!" gasped Jason, licking his lips.
As I watched Little George tantalise the Fitzroy Twins, Marc lowered his boxers, stepped out of them, and kicked them aside. Being Jewish, he presented a neatly circumcised penis to all and sundry. What intrigued me was that Marc's dick, while it also came straight out from his body, like Little George's, the last inch or two (above his circumcision ring) curved upward towards the ceiling. There was nothing wrong with it, just started to slightly curve upward a little. I couldn't help but think this was kind of cute.
More moans came from the Fitzroys, and I knew it was all they could do not to leap on the two men. Marc did not help at all. He moved to stand beside Little George and began fondling him. His hand slowly squeezed Little George's erection and a small crystal drop appeared over the pee slit of Little George's crisp, ridged glans.
The Fitzroy Twins moaned in unison. Then, as I watched, mesmerized, they uncoiled themselves and walked over to Marc and Little George. Marc began tonguing Jordan, and Jason knelt before Little George, taking his penis in his mouth. Little George shivered as Jason began to worship his dick. Marc said something to Jordan, who nodded. He turned from Marc and stood behind Little George. He began to massage Little George's back, his hands moving down, kneading Little George's hard, compact cheeks. Jordan knelt down, spread Little George's cheeks, and began to rim his glory hole, his tongue darting in and out, around the little brown hole, and back in again. Little George arched his back and thrust his hips forward, pushing his dick deeper into Jason's mouth. His arms and hands began to quake as the ecstasy of pleasure coursed through him.
Marc came silently to my chair, climbed up and sat on my stomach, my now hot, stiff dick throbbing against his butt crack. He leaned forward and began to rub my chest. I rubbed his waist and stroked his butt. I reached down and felt his hard-on. It was not bad at all, about five inches of hard meat, and thick. Three quarters of it was a light tan, the balance, from his circumcision ring to his glans, was a pleasant, rosy pink. A treasure trail of dark brown hair curled down from his navel to the base of his raging cock.
I fondled his loose ball sac, and then, with my other hand, began to stroke and pump him. He raised his hips and guided my helmet toward his tight hole. I felt my knob being guided in. I pushed gently, and half my dick was in the moist, warm cavity. Marc grimaced briefly, relaxed his muscles, and pushed back, taking every inch of me. I felt my pubic hairs against his ass.
My dick pushed through his sphincter with a soft thrust. Marc, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, began to move his hips up and down. He tightened, then loosed his muscles. Every nerve ending on my dick started exploding. The pleasure I was feeling was close to unbearable. I didn't want to cum, I couldn't cum, because I knew if I did I would be out for the night. As Marc was on an up stroke I reached down and pulled his hips forward. My dick pulled out and Marc moved up until his sweet circumcised dick touched my lips. I bent my head forward.
My mouth consumed that beautiful, compact dick. I licked his knob, and ran my tongue down the underside of his dick, my spit lubing the pulsing vein. With one hand I reached around and slowly inserted a finger into his hole, massaging the soft, wet, flesh within. Marc groaned softly and I moved my mouth up and down his shaft. I moved my finger in time with my sucking mouth. With my free hand I reached down and rubbed and rolled his tight, large balls. I could feel him tightening and thickening, so I moved my mouth upward, just above his cut line, tonguing his head and sucking his shaft.
As he grew close Marc's body began to convulse. He threw his head back, moaning. "Fuck . . . Oh God . . . Suck it . . . oh fuck . . . OH FUCK". His creamy nectar shot into my mouth. I swallowed gust after gust of thick, creamy Marc cum. His dick and balls pumped load after load into me, and I swallowed as quickly as I could, taking all he could produce. When he was finished his dick continued to spasm with pleasure as I cleaned and sucked his mushroom. He collapsed on me, groaning, his body aglow with sex.
Little George began to climax, groaning and moaning. He thrust his hips forward and grunted loudly. I saw Jordan's cheeks move in and out, then his Adam's apple began bobbing, as he swallowed Little George's dick juice. Little George bent forward, his mouth on Jordan's back, kissing it and moaning. His hips thrust sharply as jets of cum assaulted Jordan's throat. When he was finished, Little George collapsed on the floor, lying on his back, breathing heavily.
Jordan dropped to his knees and moved closer to Jason, their dicks, hard, crimson with sex, touched. They began to kiss one another, hips grinding, their hands moving slowly along each others body. The rubbed and stroked each other's dicks. Jordan reached down and began to rub Jason's butt cheeks, pushing their bodies closer. Jason did the same, and almost immediately they came, gouts of the spooge shooting up and over their dick heads. Their bodies slowly sank to the floor, and they lay there, hips moving gently as they lotioned their bodies with their mingled cum.
Marc left me and lay down beside Little George. He propped himself on one elbow and with his free hand began to stroke and fondle Little George's soft dick. Little George, his eyes closed, began to squirm in pleasure. He moaned softy as Marc's hand stroked his dick to rigidness.
Jason rolled away from Jordan and crab-crawled over to where Little George and Marc lay. He pushed his head between the two boys and took Marc's semi-erect penis into his mouth. Marc moved his body slightly, giving Jason full access to his now fully stiffened dick. He leaned down and took Little George's hard-on into his mouth, sucking it with noisy, wet sounds. With one hand Jason cupped and squeezed Marc's balls. With the other he began jerking himself.
For a moment I thought Jordan would join the other three boys. He glanced at them, stood up , walked to my chair, and pulled me up. We sank to the floor, our tongues intertwined, our hands exploring each others body.
It was going to be a long night.
When I awoke the sun was just peeking over the horizon. My whole body ached. I was lying on the floor, with Little George's head resting against my shoulder, lying on his side, his arm across my chest, one leg bent across mine, his body warm and soft against me. We had finished the night together, in the classic 69 position. I tasted his cum in my mouth still. I reached down and felt his soft, smooth cock. His balls contracted a little. His dick and balls, the taste of his cum, would stay with me for along time.
Moving Little George gently aside, I sat up and saw that Marc was sandwiched between the Twins. Jason's hand rested over Marc's balls, while Jordan's held Marc's soft dick, the head, a healthy pink, soft in his hand.
The scene before me and beside me gave promise of a long day - if I let it go on. Of course, I couldn't. I had a plane to catch. But there was still a little time left.
I lay down again and began to feel Little George's perfect, peach fuzzed cheeks. Gently I kissed and sucked his orbs, moving slowly toward his puckered brown little hole. Little George stirred and gently pushed his ass back and into my face. I nuzzled his hole, rimming and licking, thrusting my tongue into his hot and eager boy hole. I spread his cheeks and my tongue darted in an out, tasting the wet, moist flesh inside.
Little George began to moan and groan, overcome with pleasure. His ass began twitching and he moved his hips in time with my tongue fuck. I threw my arm over his hips and found his dick, thick, hot, pumping out precum. I oiled his head and shaft and pumped him. He began to groan louder.
I was so engrossed in what I was doing I almost didn't hear the other moans and groans coming from the other side of the room. I glanced backward.
Marc was standing up, his body slightly bent as Jason fucked his perfect butt. Jordan was on his knees, his mouth on Marc's raging hard-on, his hand on his own boner, jerking his beautiful, rosy boy meat. Each boy had fallen into the same rhythm, Jason fucking Marc's ass, Marc fucking Jordan's face, Jordan beating his meat. It looked like a well choreographed ballet.
I rolled Little George on his back. His dick stuck up at an angle, the skin above his ring dark red, his bulbous head covered in precum that seeped from his piss hole. I kissed and sucked his groin, which set him to moaning and twitching, then moved on to his perfect balls. I took both of them in my mouth, sucking and tonguing them, my nose buried in the base of his wonderfully smelling cock. Leaving his balls I licked my way up to his cock head and took it in my mouth. My lips tightened around Little George's sweet, smooth, hard dick. I closed my eyes, tasting him, my taste buds roaring with the flavour of him.
Little George ran his hand through my hair and then pushed my head forward. I had every inch of him in my mouth. Jesus, God, did I love sucking his dick. With my tongue I massaged his mushroom and I began bobbing my head up and down. I reached down and slipped two fingers into his chute, rubbing slowly and gently on his prostate. Little George yelped and I swear came close to fainting. This apparently was the first time his gland had been stimulated and he seemed almost overwhelmed from the pleasure flashing through his body. He jerked near-maniacally and I felt his balls tighten against my chin.
"Oh, suck . . . suck it . . . oh fucking . . . Christ suck that . . ." Little George began his cum ritual. His hips began thrusting and I increased the pace of my finger fucking to match his thrusts. I loosened my lip lock on his dick and let him fuck my face. I felt his knob banging against the back of my throat, and swallowed the precum gushing from his dick.
"Fuck . . . it's . . . Oh fuck . . ." Little George yelled. He thrust violently and his cock exploded, salvo after salvo of sweet boy cum smashing down my throat. I swallowed every drop, sucking madly as his dick twitched and jerked.
I continued to suck him as I reached down and took my dick in my hand. I was so hot I came in about six strokes, creaming the carpet, spreading cum over my stomach. I blasted and sucked Little George into whimpering post-cum pleasure.
I heard Marc groan loudly and then Jason let out a yelp as he slammed into Marc's ass. Jordan was a second later, moaning loudly as Marc flooded him with his cum and his own dick pulsed out a massive load. The three boys collapsed in a heap of sweat and cum. I released Little George and we lay for a few minutes in each other's arms, serenely happy.
After a few minutes we all drew apart. The room was ripe with semen and sweat. I opened the window to air the place out, while the boys cleaned up the more obvious stains.
We all crowded into the shower, spending a pleasant half hour washing each other's bodies, sucking and jerking the semis we each had. As we watched, Jordan dropped and sucked on Jason's dick, getting him off in what seemed like a minute.
Although I loved what we were doing I finally called a halt to the tomfoolery. We got out of the shower and the boys reluctantly found their shorts and got dressed.
As they moved toward the door Jason kissed me lightly on the lips Jordan gave at me a full-bore lip kiss. Marc traced the outline of my chin, lifted it and kissed me softly. Little George hugged me tightly.
"I'll never forget what we did. Never" he whispered. "I don't want to go."
"You have to." I said, pushing him gently away.
Little George followed the other boys from the room.
I showered again, dressed, and checked out the room. It still smelled of cum and males. I opened every window, picked up my bags, and left.
I stood on the broad steps, waiting for a taxi when they straggled out. Jason, Jordan, Little George and Marc, changed now into long pants, and white tees with blue banding. They stood in a circle around me.
"You guys should be in bed," I said. "You had a long night."
Little George shook his head. "We came to say good bye"
Jason nodded. "And to say thanks."
Before I could ask, Marc supplied the answer to my unspoken question. "You helped us find our real selves, " he said. "Jason and Jordan, they always knew what they were. Me and Little George, we were just fuckin' around before. Now we know it's different."
"It's hard, Marc. Trust me, I know." I replied. I waved my arm around, indicating the sprawling base. "This place makes it worse. The Navy makes it worse."
"The Navy isn't everything." replied Little George. Marc nodded and put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was his release form.
"When did this happen?" I asked, handing it back.
"Last month, when I realized that I wanted to be with Little George." said Marc. He turned and smiled at his lover.
"You green-sheeted, then?" I asked Little George. As a Reserve, he had only to request termination of his Class "C" billet by signing a green form. In doing so he had effectively ended his Naval career.
Little George nodded. "Marc and me, we're going home for Christmas. Then to Toronto. I've already been accepted by U of T. Marc has a place at Ryerson Poly."
I nodded my chin at the Twins. "And you two skates?"
"Home today . . ." said Jason
"For Christmas . . ." continued Jordan.
"Then UBC . . ." said Jason.
"Pre-law . . ." ended Jordan.
My cab drew up and I shook hands with them. "I'd like to hug you guys, but . . ." I looked at the facade of the Barracks. " . . .too many eyes."
They nodded and Marc handed me a large envelope I had not noticed before.
"A going away gift. Don't open it until you get to where you're going." he instructed.
"Promise?" asked Jordan.
I promised, tucked the envelope in the side panel of my carryon bag, and got into the cab. As the cab moved down Esquimalt Road I saw them waving good-bye. I imagined I could smell the difference of each of them. I looked away, believing I would never see any of them again.
On the flight to LA I pondered the last words of the boys. Had I really made such a difference in their lives? Was my leaving going to make a difference, really? Was I doing the right thing?
As these questions raced through my mind I stared out the window of the aircraft, my fingers idly playing with what I thought was a bookmark tucked into the pages of the paperback novel I had bought before boarding. I paid it no mind, it was, after all, only a book mark, but my fingers finally communicated to my brain that it was not. What I found was not an oblong, thin piece of cardboard advertising the airport bookstore, but a square piece of fine linen bond. On it, in bold, black, Spenserian script, was written: "Sometimes reform is best achieved from within."
I stared at the words, wondering what they mean to me. I stared at the card, wondering how it had come to be in a book so recently purchased. How had it got there? More importantly, who had put it there?
These questions remained unanswered. The words, however, struck a chord, and suddenly my resolve to walk away began to dissolve.
Joel met my plane and we drove into the hills above Brentwood where he had his house. He showed me to my room and I began to unpack. I remembered the envelope, took it out of the carryon and opened it.
There were two 8 x 10 color pictures. One was a shot of the four boys, wearing shorts and tees, standing in front of the Barracks, smiling broadly, their arms around each other's shoulders. A picture to be found in countless albums across the continent.
The second picture, also full color, had been taken somewhere inside a room. Against a light blue background were four figures, viewed only from the neck to the knees. They were all slim, and trim. Two with bronze, swimmers bodies, two with strong, athletic bodies. All were circumcised, each dick a near replica of the other. Two were identical in length, with just a hint of a ridge of skin under the pink mushrooms. One had a surprisingly well-defined circumcision ring. The fourth was a light tan with a thin rosy pink band between the cut line and pleasant, rosy pink helmet. Two had a treasure trail of dark brown hair curling downward from the navel to the crotch. All had low hanging balls, although two sets were a bit on the small side.
On the back of the photo was a neatly printed message . . . To remember . .
As Joel chattered away on the drive to Malibu, my fingers rimmed the card. Two phrases echoed through my mind: "Sometimes reform is best achieved from within." "To Remember."
What did they mean? Was I doing the right thing?
I needed to think, I needed to consider -- no, reconsider - the path I would walk from now on.
I would lie on the beach for a little while . . . and think.
The End